


Through My Veins

by xxTwasADreamxx



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Serial Killers, Angst, Character Death, Dark, M/M, Minor Character Death, Serial Killer Voldemort, Slow Burn, serial killer au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-23
Updated: 2016-10-07
Packaged: 2018-04-23 02:40:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 30,869
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4859924
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xxTwasADreamxx/pseuds/xxTwasADreamxx
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Potter," Slughorn shot out immediately, spittle flecking Harry's bare stomach. "He's back." </p><p>The serial killer who murdered Harry Potter's parents twenty one years ago has suddenly returned with a slew of new murders, and Auror Harry is put on the case, along with archivist for the Department of Mysteries, and new Auror consultant, Tom Riddle. As Harry's connection with Voldemort deepens, so does his friendship with the calm, ever polite Riddle. But soon Harry is caught so deep in Voldemort's conscious that he can't figure out where he begins, and the other man ends. </p><p>Or</p><p>A serial killer AU in which everyone still has magic and Harry has to fight to keep his sanity in the search for his parents killer, all while denying his attraction to the ever mysterious and handsome Tom Riddle.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, all! I've finally done it. I've decided to write a multi-chapter, slow burn Harry Potter fic that hopefully won't be shit. I've planned the whole thing out, which will hopefully keep me on track to finishing within the year. I just love these two together-they're one and the same, aren't they? Kind of like Will and Hannibal, so some credit to this being mooched off of my favorite cancelled show. Also, the title comes from the song Winter, by Daughter. Check her out. 
> 
> Enjoy! 
> 
> Disclaimer: I own nothing except a really dark and messed up psych.

_Through My Veins_

**Chapter 1**

         The sun was just beginning to peak over the trees when Harry got the floo. He contemplated not answering; maybe Slughorn would eventually give up. Harry sighed. Not likely.

         He slipped from the bed, feet slapping against the cold hardwood of his nearly empty bedroom. Yawning, he reached for his glasses resting on the side table next to a picture of himself, Ron, and Hermione, all smiling madly at the camera as wind ruffled their hair and reddened their noses. Harry gave one last longing look at the picture and his ruffled sheets and stepped over towards the fireplace to accept the floo.

         “Potter,” Slughorn shot out immediately, spittle flecking Harry’s bare stomach. “He’s back.”

...

         The crime scene was magnificent.

         His victims were laid out to perfection-mother and father dressed in their Sunday best with their two young boys. The food was still warm when they were found, turkey and mash on a white table cloth.

         The mothers pearls were spattered red with blood. As was the table cloth, and the two young boys sweater vests, and the turkey and mash. Blood had poured and spurted like fresh paint from the thin circles around their necks, and now their heads lay sideways on their shoulders, eyes closed as if they had all just fallen asleep.

         They’d been charmed, Slughorn’s team could tell that much. Charmed to watch as each member of their family was slaughtered, bound to their chairs and unable to scream. The blood had come last, after the family was dead, avada kedavra’d. It had just been a finishing touch, the last brushstrokes on his piece of art.

         “Did you trace the mark?” Harry asked, voice too loud in the quiet mourning of the dining room.

         He could have seen it from a mile away-snake twirling languidly from the glowing skulls mouth, projected in the early morning sky like a beacon to all evil.

         It was his sign. The man who’d killed Harry’s parents and had tried to kill him, leaving behind only a lightening shaped scar that stung his forehead every once in awhile, overtaking him with some strong emotion.

         Lord Voldemort was back.

         “Of course. Nothing, same as last time,” Ron sighed, running a hand through his overlong orange hair. His skin was paler than usual, freckles eerily bright.

         Harry swallowed past the lump in his throat. Last time had been his family, his house, him. Every resident of Godric’s Hollow had seen the same sign, but instead of a dead family laid out for dinner or around the telly, they found Harry. Crying like a banshee for all he was worth, but safe and sound, only graced with a scar for his survival efforts.

         “It’s been twenty one years,” Harry murmured. “Why now? Why this family?”

         “You didn’t feel anything? No dreams, nothing?” Ron asked, voice just as low amongst the scatter of Auror’s.

         Harry took in a breath. Of course he had felt something-he felt something most nights. Maybe his scar had burned hotter last night, and his dreams had been a little more bloody. He hadn’t thought it unusual at the time, just his daily midnight turnings and four a.m. wake up. Disturbed sleep was Harry’s forte.

         He opened his mouth to reply but was interrupted by a hand slamming into his back. Harry jumped a bit, words tumbling out on a cough.

         “Anything yet, Potter?” Slughorn boomed, teeth clamping together crookedly beneath the large, bushy mustache that unpleasantly reminded Harry of his Uncle.

         “No, sir,” Harry muttered, trying to discreetly lean away from the yellow toothed man.

         “We could try one thing,” Slughorn started, voice lowering as the smile melted from his face. “It could work.”

         Harry’s scar pricked with a sudden burst of pain.

         “Try it, Potter. That’s an order,” Slughorn stuck one sausage like finger out towards Harry’s scar.

…

         “Harry,” Hermione gasped, delicate hand flying to her mouth. “You can’t be serious.”

         “It was an order,” he muttered, bringing the warm glass of butterbeer up to his lips again.

         “But-but it’s dangerous! He must know that. Letting him into your mind like you do isn’t… _right_ ,” she stumbled over the last word.

         ‘Make’s you crazier,’ Harry knew she wanted to say. ‘More like him’.

         “She’s right, you know, mate,” Ron slung his arm around Hermione’s chair, thumb coming out to stroke her shoulder. “Who cares about bloody Slughorn? Go to Dumbledore about it and he’ll set the bugger right.”

         “I can’t just go crying to the Minister every time my boss does something I don’t like, Ron,” Harry insisted. “Besides, I say one word against him and it’ll be the end of my career. I’ll be careful about it, I promise.”

         “Oh, Harry,” Hermione whispered, fingers twisting together on the table. “Please be careful.”

         “Always am,” he promised, trying for a smile and succeeding enough that he got two in return.

         It wasn’t until later, when he was alone in his flat and sitting in the faint light of the moon that came in through his open windows, that Harry finally let the emotions run over him. Like cold water poured over his head, fear, misery, sadness, disgust. He had to hold back to the nausea that threatened his stomach at the memory of the family. Perfect families, that was Voldemort’s sign. That and the glaringly bright green of his mark, blasted over each and every house after the inhabitants had had their throats slit. The green of the mark almost matched Harry’s eyes, Ron had remarked offhandedly earlier in the day when they’d been looking over old crime scene pictures. Harry had turned away when they’d gotten to Voldemort’s last act, last murder. He didn’t need to see his parent’s faces again, waxy and lifeless on the floor of their old home.

         Harry didn’t remember much of that night, only knew from what he was told by neighbors and the papers every year on the anniversary that marked ‘Voldemort’s Retreat’. He was only one years old, after all. Barely out of diapers.

         Harry swallowed past the sudden lump in his throat and closed his eyes so tightly he saw colors burst from beneath the dark lids. Focus, he had to focus if he was going to do what Slughorn had asked of him.

         Harry felt his breathing slow as he leaned back into his couch, reached for that well guarded safe in his mind that held any and all connection he had to Voldemort. Unlocked it.

         A flood of emotions burst through his body, so powerful they knocked him forward and off the couch with a gasp. His knees and hands hit the floor hard enough to bruise, but he didn’t notice. All he could feel was the mantra of _joysatisfactionlustfurymore_ that flooded his brain.

         ‘Calm it,’ he choked out a silent reminder to himself. ‘This isn’t you. You can stop it.’

         And suddenly, just like that, the emotions disappeared. Not fully, he could still feel the edges of them trying to creep back in, but enough so that he could see a picture of where he was.

         A large stone fireplace sat in Harry’s (Voldemort’s, he had to remind himself) point of view. Above it hung an aged portrait, of a handsome, middle aged man whose eyes seemed to stare straight at Harry from their prone position on the wall. A muggle portrait, but those eyes…they seemed to follow his every move.

         He hurled a glass at the picture, suddenly enough to startle Harry out of the image, and then there was only _angerandbloodand_ nothing.

…

         When Harry was younger, he used to dream of finding out his parents were actually alive. They’d show up at the Dursley’s and whisk him away, tell him he was loved and they’d never let him go again. Harry realized long ago that this dream was silly. His parents were six feet under, nothing left but bones and maggots crawling through their eye sockets and breeding in dirt. They were gone, had been for awhile.

         Now, Harry dreams of blood. He dreams of torture and screaming and pure, unadulterated freedom. He dreams of a hot hand on his skin, nails scratching the nape of his neck, and a whispered laugh. He doesn’t know, anymore, which of the dreams are Voldemort’s and which are his.

         …

         When Harry finally comes to, he’s lying on the floor of his living room and his floo is ringing again.

         He sits with a groggy groan, runs a hand through his haphazard locks, and straightens his glasses. As he pushes himself up to go and answer the call, his whole spine cracks. He’s too old for this, he thinks to himself as he walks to the fireplace. And he’s only twenty two.

         “Harry, mate, where’ve you been?” Ron’s voice blasts over Harry’s eardrums, and he scrunches his eyes and rubs them hard with his fists.

         When he opens them, Ron’s disembodied head is staring at him critically.

         “You look terrible,” Ron says bluntly, and Harry keeps his mouth shut, runs his tongue over his teeth to get rid of the dry, cottony taste that grew inside as he slept.

         “What do you want, Ron?” he finally asks, when he’s gained his voice again. It sounds overused and rough even to his ears, and he flinches as it pulls itself out of his suddenly burning throat.

         “There’s been another murder,” Ron says, voice quieter now. “Slughorn is going ballistic over not being able to reach you. This is the third time I’ve tried.”

         “Sorry. Late night,” Harry muttered, crossing his arms over the t-shirt he’d been wearing when he got home last night. “Where is it? I’ll be there in thirty.”

         Ron rattled off the address of the newest murder and disconnected the floo, and Harry dragged himself to the shower. The clock told him that it was past nine in the morning, when he was supposed to have shown up for work. He’d been passed out, as good as unconscious. Harry shuddered at the thought of what could have happened in all that time, what _did_ happen.

         “Where’ve you been, boy?” Slughorn snarled when Harry apparated onto the crime scene. “Never mind. He’s at it again. I hope you got a good nights sleep, ‘cause you won’t be getting another for a nice long time.”

         Harry opened his mouth to apologize for being late, but Slughorn had already started talking again.

         “We’ve brought in an archivist, a code cracker if you will. See if we can shed some more light on this bastards pattern. Name’s Tom Riddle,” Slughorn pointed at a well dressed man, early to mid thirties, who stood a few feet away, talking earnestly to Ron.          

         “Harry, finally! Get over here, you’ve got to meet Tom, he’s dead smart,” Ron yelled across the room, and Riddle’s eyes snapped up to meet Harry’s.

         They were black orbs in the archivist’s pale face, surrounded by a brush of long, thick lashes that probably touched his skin every time he closed his eyes. His cheekbones protruded sharply from beneath his taught skin, and a perfectly assembled curl of dark brown hair lay drooped on his forehead.

         Harry pulled his eyes away, murmured a low ‘sorry’ to Slughorn, and made his way towards the pair.

         “There you are, you bastard. Up partying without me. You’re a right prick sometimes, you know that,” Ron wrinkled his nose in distaste as Harry neared him.

         Harry didn’t try to correct him. Better he believe that Harry had gone out without him than know what he’d really been doing-accessing his link to Voldemort.

         “Sorry,” Harry murmured again, pushing his glasses up his nose from where they’d fallen again. “I forgot to set an alarm.”

         “’S alright. Next time you have to promise to take me with you, though,” Ron laughed, clapping a hand on Harry’s back. It brought back the memory of another hand on his upper back, sliding over his shoulders and to his neck, from his dreams the night before, and Harry shivered.

         “Tom Riddle, archivist for the Department of Mysteries. Pleased to meet you,” Tom held out a hand, interrupting their camaraderie.

         “Harry Potter,” Harry clasped his hand, and almost jerked back. The man’s skin was burning, like he had a fever. Tom’s fingers clenched around his and then slipped away.

         “An honor, Mr. Potter. I’ve heard much about you,” Tom smiled charmingly at Harry, lips a thin brush of color in the middle of his black and white form.

         “Yes, well, Harry’s one of our best workers. And after such a tragic upbringing, too.”

         Slughorn had sidled over and inserted himself into the conversation, beaming at Tom like a proud parent who was bragging about his child _not_ giving into it’s darker instincts.

         Harry had to stop the bitterness that suddenly tinged his mouth from seeping out and onto his tongue, past his lips, straight for Slughorn.

         “Yes, well, I’m referring to Mr. Potter’s work as an Auror, but I suppose you’re right,” Tom replied back, tone slightly cooled, and Harry felt a pang of something akin to appreciation tug at his chest.

         Slughorn opened his mouth, brow slightly furrowed, but before he could blurt out any other embarrassing tidbits about Harry, the young bespectacled man interrupted him.

         “When were they found?” Harry asked, gesturing towards the family seated at a small breakfast nook in their brightly lit, warmly inviting kitchen.

         There was a father, a mother, and a daughter this time. The small girl still had traces of a smile around her mouth.

         “Around two hours ago. Got a call from a neighbor who said the glare from the mark woke them up,” Slughorn grunted, obviously peeved at having been interrupted.

         “The neighbor didn’t see anything, hear anything?” Harry continued, feeling the beginnings of a headache coming on.

         “No. They’d been dead for at least an hour by the time he called,” Ron answered, suddenly serious.

         Harry stepped over to the family, eyes roaming over their lifeless bodies. The girl had a sweater with the face of a kitten sewn onto it, collar soaked through with blood.

         “This isn’t his normal murder,” Harry said after a few minutes of examining the scene. “They weren’t done so closely together before. They were more spread out, maybe once every few weeks.”

         “Maybe he has a new pattern?” Ron suggested, stepping up behind Harry to peer at the bodies.

         “No. This one’s different. More…” Harry searched for the word, latched onto it floating near that metal safe he’d unlocked last night. “Rushed.”

         “How do you know?” Ron’s voice, curious and close, fluttered next to Harry’s ear.

         “I just-do,” Harry ground his teeth together, suddenly frustrated. “It doesn’t make any sense. Why did he suddenly start killing again, after twenty one years? It’s not like something monumental happened. It had to have been something small, something that pushed him to start at it after so long.”

         “Maybe it had something to do with you.”

         The statement was simple, Tom’s voice low and cultured as it rolled over his ‘o’s and ‘y’s. But it was like Harry had been kicked swiftly in the head by a heavy boot.

         “That’s it,” Harry turned swiftly on his heel, grinning like an idiot. “That’s exactly it. I opened our connection last night, he must’ve felt it, must’ve known I knew about the first killing.”

         “You did what?” Ron’s eyes widened almost comically.

         “It doesn’t explain why the murderers started happening again, but it does explain this one,” Harry turned back, still smiling, to the bodies. And then he stopped, grin frozen on his face for a few milliseconds before it melted off like hot wax.

         “He did it because of me,” Harry repeated, softer this time.

         “Did you see anything?” Slughorn, this time, eager, hot breath panting loudly in Harry’s other ear.

         “Just a fireplace and a picture, no one I recognized. He was in a house, I think, and then he got angry and threw something…I don’t know, after that,” Harry babbled, clenching his hands tight enough so that his fingernails bit into his palms.

         “So, useless,” Slughorn snorted, turning away. “Alright. Let’s leave this to the forensics team and meet back at headquarters. Riddle, you too, I want your opinion on all of this.”

         Slughorn disappeared with a ‘pop’, and Harry sighed, turning back to Ron, who could only roll his eyes as he disappeared as well.

         Harry’s eyes moved to meet Tom’s, who was looking at him intently. Then, with a slight smile, he disappeared too.

         Harry pushed away the edge of foreboding that threatened to overwhelm him, and apparated to the Ministry.


	2. Chapter Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello again! Sorry for the time between postings, applying for college is a bitch. Hope you guys enjoy!
> 
> Disclaimer: Nothing is mine.

Chapter 2:

         “The most detailed records-pictures and such-are kept in the Department of Mysteries,” Slughorn grunted, taking a seat behind his desk. “I’ll need to talk to the… _higher ups_ , as it were, to get permission to see them.”

         “That could take ages,” Ron grumbled, slumping into his seat. Tom sat, back ramrod straight and hands politely clasped together in his lap, next to him. Harry stood-he was far too fidgety for sitting around.

         “I’m very sorry for not being able to help. The files are not within my timeline of records,” Tom nodded his head slightly in apology.

         “I could try to make contac-“ Harry started, pacing the back of the room, feet wearing the already threadbare carpet thinner.

         “Absolutely not. Not without my permission, Potter,” Slughorn growled, hands slamming down on the desk suddenly. “You can try to open the connection a little, feel for where he is, but absolutely no contact whatsoever.”

         Harry resisted the answering growl he felt trapped in his throat, bubbling up to grasp his tongue. He felt…well, in all honesty, he felt helpless. And if there was one thing Harry Potter hated, it was feeling helpless.

         “Look, we won’t know about the Department of Creepy Crawlies-no offense, Riddle-until later, and we’ve been looking over the stuff we have for hours now. Can we just meet back here tomorrow?” Ron groaned, running a hand through his overlong ginger hair.

         Slughorn clacked his teeth together, sneering at Ron.

         “Since you were the one who seems to eager to leave, Weasley, why don’t you go gather up the paperwork for the Department. Potter, Tom, you’re dismissed early,” Slughorn smirked, leaving Ron sputtering in indignation.

         Harry sighed. Ron and his mouth. Not that he really minded the fact that Slughorn held him behind-he knew Ron would ask to have a drink, or go clubbing or some other loud and populated thing. All Harry wanted to do was go home, have a beer, and catch up on his muggle shows.

         He shot Ron a sympathetic smile anyway as he and Tom exited. Ron rolled his eyes and mouthed ‘bloody back breaker’ when Slughorn wasn’t looking.

         He had just started towards the lifts when a smooth, deep voice stopped him in his tracks.

         “Would you like to get a drink with me, Mr. Potter?”

         Harry’s breath hitched as he turned to stare with furrowed brows at Tom.

         “T-tonight?” he stuttered out, swallowing hard against the sudden surge of pain that flickered through his scar. “I mean, now?”

         “Yes, if you’re free. I’d like to pick your brain some more about the case,” Tom smiled, full mouth stretching over pristine teeth.

         “I-well, I was just planning on going home, but-“ Harry started, scrambling to come up with an excuse.

         “Good. Here, I have the perfect place,” Tom held out one elegant arm, crooked so that Harry’s hand could slide in.

         Harry took in a large breath and held it for a few moments. He didn’t have it in him to be rude to the man-Tom didn’t stare at the scar, and he didn’t ask pesky questions. That was enough to melt his resolve.

         “Sure,” he sighed out, curling his fingers around Tom’s forearm.

         The familiar pull of apparation sucked the breath out of Harry’s lungs, made his head spin. His hand clenched harder on Tom’s arm, probably hard enough to leave bruises later. Thankfully Tom didn’t say anything when their feet finally landed on hard ground moments later.

         They stood in front of a pub. Light shone from within, and a welcoming sign proclaiming its name, ‘The Cantankerous Lion’, swung merrily from above the doorpost. Harry followed Tom silently inside and was hit by the sudden warmth of the place. It didn’t seem overly crowded, not in an oppressive way, but there was a large assortment of unknown, smile wrinkled faces and the din of soft chatter and clinking glasses filled the whole room.

         Harry followed Tom to an unoccupied table in the back corner, and Tom smiled as he pulled out Harry’s chair for him.

         “I’ll go get us drinks. Firewhiskey okay?” he asked, and when Harry nodded whisked himself away to the bar.

         Harry took a deep breath and the smell of freshly cooked bread and pumpkin juice hit his nose. For a moment, he was back again in Hogwarts’ Great Hall. Hermione sat with her nose pushed into a pile of books at his side, and Ron and Ginny were arguing over some Quidditch team across the table. He felt home.

         A glass filled to the brim with firewhiskey was set gently in front of him, and Harry was pulled back to the present. The present, where Voldemort was murdering again and all he had left to go home to was not a room full of snoring friends, but a lonely, cold bed in a cluttered flat.

         Tom took a seat across from him, taking a sip of his drink as he regarded Harry with those warm, calm eyes. They reminded him of an x-ray, the same type of all seeing eyes Dumbledore had regarded him with after telling him the truth behind his parents death.

         “Reminds a bit of Hogwarts, doesn’t it?” Tom smiled around his glass.

         Harry started. It was like Tom had read his mind. It made him shift a little uneasily in his seat-if only his worshippers, the ones who regarded him as a hero for making Voldemort retreat into hiding after his Avada Kedavra had failed, could see the ugly thoughts he had sometimes. They wouldn’t think him a hero anymore.

         “A bit,” Harry murmured, curling his chilled fingers around the glass. A few feet away from their table, a fire roared in the hearth. “I didn’t know you went to Hogwarts.”

         Tom laughed. “Of course I did. Lived within two hours of London my whole life, in fact. Hogwarts was the natural choice.”

         “Did your parents go, as well?” Harry asked, curious.

         Tom’s smile melted off his face fast than Harry would be able to snap his fingers.

         “My mother died when I was young, and my father had little interest in me. I was raised in a muggle orphanage,” Tom told him, voice still low but with an edge of something bitter to it now. The change startled Harry-he could see, now, how those warm eyes could turn cold with just a few words.

         “I’m sorry,” he murmured, looking down at the table and fidgeting awkwardly. “I shouldn’t have asked. It wasn’t my business.”

         When he chanced a glance up, Tom was smiling again. It was like the moment of anger that Harry had seen flash through his eyes had never happened-he was the same Tom he’d been all day.

         “Not at all. And you? Where did you grow up?” he asked cheerily, leaning forward as if he actually cared.

         “Oh, in a suburbs in London with my aunt and uncle. And my cousin, I guess. Right prat, he was,” Harry wrinkled his nose, his reaction every time he mentioned the Dursley’s. “Wasn’t until after Sirius was cleared of charges my seventh year I moved in with him.”

         “Sirius Black?” Tom raised his eyebrows delicately. “I did not know you were connected with him more intimately than the fact that he was accused of your parents murder.”

         A smile cracked Harry’s face. “He’s my godfather. He didn’t have anyone after he got out of Azkaban, either, so it was nice for him to have some company, I think. Me, too.”

         “You two are very close?” Tom asked.

         “Yeah. Spend every holiday together. He still lives in the old house, even though it’s big enough for a family of nine at least. But I visit a lot. Get’s a bit lonely, living by yourself, doesn’t it?” Harry rambled out, a dimple cutting his right cheek as his grin widened.

         “It does,” Tom acknowledged quietly with a slight nod of his head. “It was different always being surrounded by children, at the orphanage, and then at Hogwarts. Of course, the dungeons weren’t really more welcoming.”

         Tom laughed a little, more self mocking than anything. Harry’s mouth dropped open.

         “You were _Slytherin_?” Harry’s lip curled as he gave Tom another once over.

         He couldn’t imagine Tom Riddle as a…well, as such a prick to be put in Slytherin, quite frankly. He couldn’t imagine Tom being friends with the likes of Malfoy, or dating a girl like Pansy Parkinson.

         Tom laughed again, this time a hearty thing that rose from his throat. It made Harry’s cheeks warm.

         “Not all Slytherin’s are bad you know, Harry. Some are rather smart,” Tom flashed those pearly teeth again.

         “But-but-Voldemort was Slytherin, wasn’t he? Or at least, that’s what they say. And Snape!” Harry protested.

         “Ah, yes, that is true. He was just starting out, you know, when I was a first year. Scared us all back then, too,” Tom chuckled, warmly, as if talking about an old friend.

         “Merlin, he hated me,” Harry muttered, shaking his head as if trying to dislodge the memories of his earliest years with the great bat of the dungeon.

         “I can’t imagine anyone hating you, Harry,” Tom said, voice curling around Harry’s name in a way that made his cheeks heat even more, and his breath catch awkwardly in his chest.

         “Thanks,” Harry muttered, putting a hand to his flushed skin so Tom couldn’t see.

…

         “They said it’d take a few days for the paperwork to go through,” Slughorn seethed to Harry and Ron the next morning. “Since they’re such important files.”

         “Wankers,” Ron muttered under his breath, and Harry elbowed him in the side.

         “We could talk to the family, see about any friends they had, any new acquaintances they’d been seeing recently,” Harry suggested over Ron’s hissed curses.

         “Good, Potter. I’ve got a list of names somewhere here,” Slughorn started rifling around the mess of papers on his desk.

         Once they’d gotten the list and gone over it again-they were never really that accurate, and some of the relatives had died years ago-Harry and Ron set off to visit the sister of the murdered Mrs. Gallaway.

         “Swanky part of town,” Ron noted, looking around with wide eyes as they approached the pristinely white washed door. “Wonder how they got all that money.”

         “Friends with the Malfoy’s,” Harry sighed, waving the list tightly clutched in his hand. “So were the victims. That’s what’s odd about it. Before, he’d kill families who had money, yeah, but they were never Purebloods. Voldemort’s a bigot-what changed?”

         “Guess we’ll find out. Maybe he didn’t mean to kill ‘em. Wasn’t like the Gallaway’s or that other family went out to all those fancy events or anything,” Ron shrugged as Harry reached forward to ring the doorbell.

         “He’s smart, though. Does his research. This was deliberate, a deviation from the norm. And _two_ pureblood families within forty eight hours? What’re the odds?” Harry ran a hand through his hair and pushed his glasses back up his nose.

         The door swung open. Behind it stood a woman, eyes heavily lined and smudged with mascara. Her frosted hair was piled in a severe bun on the top of her head, showing off her magically tightened forehead.

         “And you are?” the woman pursed her lips, tapping one kitten heel clad foot.

         “Hello, m’am. We’re with the Aurors. We’d like you to ask a few questions about your cousin, Lillian Gallaway,” Harry tried for a smile, but his lips only lifted halfway up his cheek before falling back down.

         The woman gave an irritated cluck of her tongue, crossing her arms together over her white silk blouse.

         “I don’t exactly have-“ she started, but her voice tapered off when she took a closer look at Harry, breath catching. “Mr…Potter. I didn’t recognize you. Come in.”

         Ron shot Harry a look and he rolled his eyes, smoothing down his dark hair subconsciously over his scar. God, that was one thing he hated about this job. As much as he had dreamed and worked towards being an Auror his whole life, he hated the publicity that came with it.

         “Nice place,” Ron commented skeptically as they entered the large, whitewashed house.

         The woman ignored him and led them to a formal sitting room off the side of the home, the type of room that children would be allowed to look at from the outside but never enter because there were too many precious artifacts. Ron stuck out like a sore thumb.

         The woman sat down primly on the edge of a chair that looked more like a throne, leaving a stiff looking red couch for Harry and Ron. Harry took a deep breath.

         “M’am, we’re sorry to have to inform you of this, but your cousin Lillian…well, she’s been murdered.”

         The woman raised one thinly painted on eyebrow. “Call me Annette.”

         “I-um, Annette. I’m really sorry for your loss, but if you’re feeling up to it, can we ask you a few questions about Lillian and her family?” Harry glanced sideways at Ron, who was staring at Annette like she was mentally deranged. Which was, at this point, quite possible.

         “I suppose so. If it won’t take long,” Annette suddenly looked away, expression morphing into one of practiced boredom.

         “Yes, well-where were you the night of December 12th?” Ron scrunched his nose at the woman, irritation clouding his gaze.

         “Why, I was at the Malfoy’s annual ball, of course!” Annette laughed suddenly, piercing the Auror’s ears so loudly they both flinched.

         “And the morning of December 13th?” Harry continued, shaking his head a little to get the ringing out of his ears.

         “In bed, with my husband. He can confirm,” Annette smirked a little at Harry, flicking her tongue out to wet her lip. “We were…occupied, at the time.”

         Out of the corner of his eye, Harry could see Ron turn a bright scarlet.

         “Were you close with Lillian, m’am?” Harry cleared his throat awkwardly and tried to keep a straight face.

         Annette’s face turned cold, frozen into an expression of slight disgust. “Absolutely not. Maybe as children, but as we grew older Annette took up with that Muggle loving husband of hers and completely cut herself off from our family. She wasn’t even _invited_ to the Malfoy’s ball, you know,” Annette whispered the last part, leaning in conspiratorially.

         “Do you know the name of any of Lillian’s friends we could talk t-“ Harry started to ask, but was interrupted by a sudden searing pain in his scar.

         He opened his mouth to curse but all that came out was an airy gasp, lungs clutching for air. Emotions flooded his head and heart, and all of a sudden he _needed to kill, needed blood on his hands, feel the stickiness of it coat his fingers and touch his tongue and-_

         “Ron,” Harry managed to squeak out.

         “Shit-sorry, m’am. We’ll send another team out to finish the questions, but it appears that my colleague is sick. Have a good day,” Ron shot in a harried tone towards Annette, before grabbing Harry’s arm and apparating them back to the ministry.

         Harry passed out on the way.


	3. Chapter Three

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi! Another chapter. Poor, angry Tom when his plans don't go well :) Also, I've changed the dates a bit (in the last chapter, you'll see) so that it's mid December. Works better with where I'm hoping to go with this. Hope you guys enjoy! 
> 
> Disclaimer: I own nothing.

Chapter 3:

         _Do you feel strong, Harry Potter?_

Harry took one breath, two. His lungs burned steadily in his chest, and when he cracked his eyes open, his lashes pulled against his sticky skin. He was in a room, that was the first thing his blurry vision took in. It was large, dark, and the moon shone from behind one floor to ceiling window. It took him a moment to locate the speaker: he stood off to the corner, by the edge of the curtain. He was enveloped in black so Harry couldn’t quite make out his face, but he could see the glowing red eyes. A shiver ran down his spine.

         “What do you mean?” Harry asked, voice coming out like gravel.

         _Strength, Mr. Potter, is a funny thing. Outer strength can come and go in the snap of a finger-_ the man clicked his middle finger and thumb together, long, bony fingers extending out into the moonlight- _but inner strength, now that sticks. That’s the hard one to break. That’s the fun part._

“Is that what you’re trying to do? Break me?” Harry leaned forward, neck creaking under the strain of having to hold his heavy head up. His mouth felt like cotton.

         There was a rustle, and then the man stepped into the light with a sweep of black robes. Harry gasped. He was a monster, white head hairless and glowing with a slight scaly sheen under the moon. His eyes were indeed glowing red, and his pupils were only slits. Instead of a nose rested two holes, flattening his features.

         _I already have._

Harry awoke choking on his own yell, cough gathering up past his pained lungs and out chapped lips. When he finally could gulp in enough air he saw nothing, reached clumsily around for his glasses. His fingers grasped the familiar black plastic and he slipped them up his nose.

         He was in a hospital room, cold, metal, white. He was alone, too, but he didn’t even get a few moments to collect his thoughts-the healers must’ve known that he’d come to, because suddenly the door burst open and there was movement and voices everywhere. Through it all he heard a slightly shrill, “Harry!” and finally a head of bushy curls pushed through the crowd.

         Hermione’s nose was scrunched in irritation as she got past all the extra staff that had piled into the room, desperate for a look at the Chosen One. Her elbows splayed out, hitting as many as she could on her way to the bed, and when she finally reached Harry her hand came out to give him a sharp whack on the head.

         “Ow!” he flinched back, brain feeling as if it was rolling sideways into his skull.

         “Well, you deserve it!” she sniffed, raising her pointed chin slightly and glaring down at him.

         Others might think she was furious, but Harry had known Hermione for a long time. He could see the slight filmy gleam in her eyes that betrayed her; she’d been holding back tears. And her lips was bitten and raw, like she’d been worrying at it for hours now.

         “Sorry,” he muttered, looking down at the white covers on the bed sheepishly. “I didn’t do it on purpose. It just…happened.”

         “It’s because you reached out for him,” she whispered, lowering her voice so that the various healers rushing around his room and checking his vitals couldn’t hear her. “I told you not to. Now he knows you’re looking for him again. It’s not safe, Harry.”

         “I know,” Harry scratched at his nose and didn’t meet her eyes.

         There was a long pause as a healer asked him how his head was feeling, and that she’d just called Auror Slughorn to tell him Harry’d woken up. When the healer had stepped away, Harry looked to Hermione again, and saw her cheeks were flushed a dark, heated red. She looked as if she was about to burst at the seams with irritation.

         “You’re not going to stop, are you?” she finally said.

         “No,” Harry sighed, bunching and un-bunching the sheets in his fists.

         “Harry, you’ll drive yourself mad,” she implored, and when he didn’t reply she reached to the back of his head and yanked his hair hard so that he’d have to meet her eyes. “I don’t know if I can deal with another fifth year. Remember when you first started hearing him, before Dumbledore taught you how to block him out? You stopped sleeping.”

         “I remember,” Harry insisted.

         And he did. He remembered the sleepless nights, raging headaches, and sudden uncontrollable bursts of emotion. He remembered the havoc he’d wreaked on his friendships with Ron and Hermione, the depression that had perpetually hovered over his head like a swarm of angry bees. He’d hated everything and everyone, that year. It was only after he’d passed out from another sleepless night in the middle of Charms that Dumbledore finally found out what had been going on and told Harry about his and Voldemort’s connection. It was also then that he taught Harry how to block the killer out.

         “Look, I’m just worried about you, you know that. I hate to see you like this,” Hermione sat down on the edge of his bed and put a slightly shaking hand on his arm.

         “I know, ‘Mione. I’m really, really sorry. I just…I can’t let it go,” he told her. What he really meant was that he couldn’t let _him_ go-Voldemort, who’d shoved himself into Harry’s life when he was one years old, obliterated his world, and had been there ever since.

         Hermione opened her mouth to reply but was interrupted by Slughorn’s booming voice from the doorway.

         “Potter! What did I tell you about reaching out without my permission?” Slughorn hustled his large form to Harry’s side, completely ignoring Hermione.

         “I’ll leave you two alone for a bit. I’ll be right outside,” Hermione stood, turning to Harry and patting his arm before awkwardly trying to slide around Slughorn.

         “I don’t want you to use your connection anymore. It’s getting to dangerous,” Slughorn spat out.

         “But sir, I think it’ll really help-“ Harry started.

         “No buts. I absolutely forbid you from opening the connection again,” Slughorn growled, shaking a meaty finger at Harry.

         Harry opened his mouth to argue before closing it again and nodding silently. What Slughorn didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him.

         “Good. Now I expect you back at work tomorrow morning, bright and early. I’m sending you to question the Malfoy’s with Riddle. Weasley’s is going back to Annette Gallaway’s house to finish up there,” Slughorn nodded once at Harry before turning to leave.

         “And Potter-“ Slughorn glanced back at him over his shoulder. “Be careful.”

         With that the door shut behind him, and Harry was once again left alone.

…

         “Look, I just think I should warn you, um, it’s just-well, the Malfoy’s don’t exactly like me,” Harry told Tom, taking in quick breaths in the brisk air. Winter was coming, and the temperature had dropped quickly overnight.

         Tom glanced over at him and smiled. He was dressed in a long, light wool coat and pristinely pressed black suit. Suspenders shown from beneath his jacket.

         “I’m sure they’ll be courteous. We are here on a business call, after all,” Tom said as they reached the large double doors of the Malfoy Mansion.

         Harry raised his eyebrows skeptically, but reached out and lifted one serpent headed knocker anyway.

         A few moments later the door swung open to reveal a hunched house elf dressed in a worn pillowcase.

         “Yes?” the house elf looked Harry and Tom overly primly.

         “Auror Potter and Tom Riddle here to see Lucius Malfoy,” Harry sighed, mouth twisting in displeasure as he looked past the elf to the large, dark entryway.

         “One moment, please,” the house elf said, before promptly shutting the door in their faces.

         Harry blinked in surprise at the door, but it only took seconds before it was opening again and the elf was gesturing them inside. They followed him through the corridor and up a flight of stairs to a large sitting room, where Draco Malfoy sat on a couch with an open book next to him on the couch.

         “Oh, God,” Harry muttered beneath his breath.

         “Potter,” Malfoy wrinkled his nose in distaste as he stood. “What an unpleasant surprise. What do you want?”

         “We have a few questions for your father, Malfoy. Is he here?” Harry asked, sighing. He hated dealing with Malfoy, and had made it a life goal since graduating Hogwarts to never run into him again.

         Fate bloody hated him, didn’t it?

         “I’ve summoned him. He’ll be here within the half hour. I’m surprised they let you into work today, Potter. From what I heard, you had a little fainting fit yesterday,” Malfoy smiled nastily at Harry.

         “Can we ask you a few questions while we wait, then?” Harry ignored Malfoy’s jab.

         “I suppose,” he raised his chin, looking bored but gesturing them to take a seat in the chairs across from him.

         “Thank you. Did you attend the annual ball your father holds this year?” Harry started, fidgeting slightly. He hated this fucking house

         “Of course,” Malfoy scoffed. “I see you didn’t get an invite. Of course, you must’ve been spending time with the mudblood again.”

         The next thing he knew, Harry was standing with his wand clutched tightly in his hand, glaring at Malfoy.

         “Don’t you fucking call her that, Malfoy,” he spat, nearly shaking with rage.

         “Harry,” Tom lay a hand on his arm, and all of a sudden Harry felt the urge to throttle Malfoy sap itself from his bones. He just felt very, very tired.

         Taking a breath, he sat down again, stowing his wand. He tried not to blush. He hated that Tom had seen him in a fit of anger. He also appreciated that Tom had calmed him down-his touch had made him feel in control again.

         “Look, _Harry_ ,” Malfoy’s lips curled. “I was at the ball all night. So I didn’t kill those Gallaway blood traitors, if that’s what you’re wondering. And I have witnesses to vouch for it, too.”

         Harry opened his mouth to retort that he was very sure Malfoy had paid off lots of witnesses, but before he could betray his anger again a pop sounded and Lucius Malfoy was standing tall and proud before them.

         “Auror Potter, Mr. Riddle, I apologize for my lateness. I was not home when my son advised me that you had arrived,” Lucius said coldly and curtly.

         Harry cleared his throat. “Of course, Mr. Malfoy. We just have a few questions about the Nettles to ask you, since you were reportedly friends of theirs.”

         Malfoy paled. “They’re dead? But I-I just saw them. They were at the ball.”

         “They were found dead the morning after,” Tom supplied, when it was clear Harry wasn’t going to answer him.

         “Draco, could you give us a few minutes alone?” Lucius turned his head to his son and gestured impatiently for him to leave.

         Draco gaped open mouthed at his father before standing and storming out of the room, muttering under his breath about ‘preferential treatment’ and ‘stupid bloody Harry Potter’.

         Lucius sat in the same seat Malfoy had just occupied, gracefully crossing his legs.

         “I’m happy to see you, Tom. So sorry you couldn’t make it to the ball this year,” Lucius turned his attention towards Tom, a welcoming expression appearing on his face.

         “My regards to you and Narcissa,” Tom smiled cooly at the man, as Harry in turn stared at Tom.

         Friends with the Malfoys? How could it be possible? He had seemed so… _nice_!

         “Malfoy, the Nettles, please. Could you tell us how they were acting at the ball? If anything seemed particularly off?” Harry interrupted.

         “They seemed perfectly normal to me. They brought as a lovely bottle of wine, actually. Tom, you must come over one night and try it. A vintage, from the 40’s. Lovely bouqu-“ Lucius prattled on.

         “That’s alright, Lucius. I wouldn’t want you to waste it on me,” Tom interrupted him, voice edging on hard.

         Harry stared at him. Tom looked…irritated. Beyond irritated. Like he wanted to stab Lucius Malfoy in the eye, actually. Or throat, to stop him from talking.

         “Oh, of course, I know you’re quite busy with work in the Department of Mysteries, of course-“ Lucius started again, blushing slightly.

         “Mr. Malfoy, how long have you known the Nettles?” Harry sighed, ignoring the glares shot his way from the man.

         It was over an hour before they finally pried themselves away from Lucius Malfoy, and Harry had gotten enough information out of the man between bouts of him trying to get Tom over for dinner or a party to know that the Malfoy’s had nothing to do with the Nettle’s murder. And also to know that, despite his superior age, Lucius Malfoy _worshipped_ at Tom Riddle’s feet.

         “I didn’t know you were friends with the Malfoy’s,” Harry broke the silence as they walked away from the house and towards the gates to apparate.

         Tom made a clicking sound with his tongue, and when Harry looked over at him the man’s face was contorted into an expression one often found on someone when they’ve seen a particularly nasty bug.

         “I’m not. He’s a spoiled prat,” Tom nearly growled, and Harry felt his heart thud a little faster in his chest at his raspy tone.

         Harry swallowed past the sudden in his throat and shrugged, trying to hide his grin.

         They apparated to a block away from the ministry, ending up in a little dark back alley. Just as they took a step forward, a flash of red light and a muttered ‘crucio’ blinded Harry.

         The next thing he knew, Harry was being pushed into a wall by strong, warm hands, and his wand was in his hand.

         “Expelliarmus!” Harry shouted, dodging another crucio curse thrown his way and aiming towards one of the two dark bodies silhouetted in the mouth of the alleyway. He heard a cursed shout from one of the men, and the clatter of a wand against pavement.

         “Petrificus Totalus,” Harry aimed at the figure, but the spell was avoided, and he heard two distinct pops as the men disapparated from the alley. Harry could’ve sworn he saw a swing of long pale hair as they disappeared.

         “Fuck,” Harry muttered, rubbing his shoulder, which had fallen heavily against the wall.

         _Tom_.

         He immediately searched for the tall man in the shadows, and saw him calmly brushing off dust from his coat arm. Harry let out a sigh of relief.

         “Are you alright?” Harry rushed to his side, falling back on his heels as he fought the urge to reach out and make sure the man was really there.

         “Yes,” Tom’s voice was tight, and when he met Harry’s eyes his face was set like hardened stone. He looked…absolutely _livid_.

         “Look, let’s see if they left behind anything so we can try and trace-um-“ Harry’s voice tapered off with a heavy breath as Tom reached forward and tugged his jacket off his shoulder.

         “You hit your shoulder?” Tom asked, prodding around. Harry nodded wordlessly. “There doesn’t seem to be any swelling. You should be okay. I’m sorry I-pushed you so hard.”

         Tom’s fingers suddenly dug into Harry’s shoulder, and he had to hold back a hiss of pain.

         “It’s alright. We’re both fine,” Harry tried for a smile, and Tom pulled his hand off Harry’s arm as if he hadn’t realized it was still there.

         “Of course. We should report this to Auror Slughorn,” Tom gave one stilted nod of his head and swept out of the alley.

            Harry stared at the man’s retreating back, wondering what could have gotten to calm, collected Tom.


	4. Chapter Four

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello again! Another chapter, and so soon too! I've caught the writing bug and have been working non-stop on this story. Not to get your hopes up, but expect a little 'excitement' next time... :)   
> Reviews are greatly appreciated! 
> 
> Disclaimer: I own nothing.

Chapter 4:

         Harry took one step into the chattering pub and wanted to leave. He contemplated it, too-sending Hedwig to tell Sirius that he had come down with something after getting into a scrap in a back alleyway near the Ministry-but before he could urge his feet backwards and out the door, his godfather had spotted him.

         “Harry!” Sirius’ grin cracked his slowly aging face, tan stretching itself over his skin. “Get on over here.”

         Harry sighed and weaved through the crowd towards a high top table Sirius had snagged in the back. A pint of butterbeer was already waiting for him. He took a gulp and nodded towards Sirius appreciatively.

         “How ya doin’, kiddo?” Sirius reached over and ruffled Harry’s already messy hair.

         Harry shrugged and looked down at the golden liquid frothing in the pint glass. How was he? He was working on a case involving the serial killer who had killed his parents and almost killed him. His scar was hurting almost 24/7 these days. He’d seen enough blood to last a lifetime. And he was pretty sure that Voldemort knew how to get in his head. So how was he? Harry couldn’t possibly explain it in words.

         “I’m alright,” Harry told Sirius instead.

         “‘Course you are,” Sirius smiled that white, gap toothed smile, and suddenly Harry almost believed his own lie.

         “How are you? How’s the shop?” Harry asked, trying to shift the attention off himself.

         Sirius’ grin softened. “Great. Lots of people coming in, ‘specially so near the hols.”

         Harry couldn’t help but smile back. Sirius had gotten his little bookshop a year out of Azkaban. He’d filled it with muggle books and set it up in Diagon Alley, and it had been brimming with costumers itching for a taste of muggle literature ever since.

         “How’s work?” Sirius’ grin disappeared. He’d been reading the papers, Harry was sure-he knew Voldemort was back.

         “Long,” Harry closed his eyes and raked a hand through his hair, pushing his glasses up his nose on the way. “They brought in an archivist from the Department of Mysteries and everything. They’re really trying to catch him, this time.”

         “They tried last time, too. They just couldn’t beat him. He was too smart,” Sirius tugged a piece of his own shoulder length hair awkwardly, obviously trying to ward off memories of the man who had framed him as an accomplice and landed him fifteen years in Azkaban. “What’s the guys name?”

         “Tom Riddle. Graduated a few years after you, I think,” Harry told him, taking another sip of butterbeer.

         “Hell, a Riddle?” Sirius’ eyes almost popped out of his head.

         “Yeah, why?” Harry’s brow furrowed, and he shifted uncomfortably in his seat.

         “They’re one of the oldest wizarding families. Pureblood all the way back to Salazar Slytherin, they say,” Sirius shook his head in disbelief. “A Riddle, working in the Department of Mysteries. What a world.”

         “Really?” Harry’s breath caught in surprise and hesitation. “He seems so…nice, though.”

         “Nice to you, yeah. Probably a bigoted troll behind closed doors,” Sirius muttered, rolling his eyes.

         If Harry’s heart fell a little at that, he didn’t let on.

         A few hours and drinks later, they parted way outside, Harry wrapping his scarf tighter around his neck.

         “Come by for tea next week. Remus’ll be there,” Sirius patted Harry’s back, and he told his godfather he’d try.

         He always felt awkward when having drinks with just Sirius and Remus. It felt oddly like he was interrupting something.

         They parted ways, Harry clomping slightly tipsily down the street towards his flat. Sirius had picked a place only a few blocks away from Harry’s home, knowing it would be more likely he’d get the boy out of the house with only a couple of grumbles. Right now, Harry gave a silent thanks to his curmudgeonly nature-he doubted he could apparate without splinching this far into his cups.

         He stumbled up two flights of stairs and fumbled with his keys before muttering a low ‘alohomora’ after glancing covertly around for any stray muggles. Harry barely had time to shuck his jacket and shoes before falling onto the couch and passing out into blissful darkness.

…

         “You haven’t been loyal, Dolohov,” a voice hissed in the darkness.

_Harry’s voice_.

         “I’m sorry, my lord, I didn’t mean to-“ Dolohov pleaded beneath Harry’s glowing red eyes.

         “You didn’t mean to not follow orders? I told you to bring him in alive and unharmed, not attack him in broad daylight,” Harry seethed, pushing one foot out to kick at Dolhov’s bent legs.

         “My lord, I’m sorry, I’ll make it up to yo-“ Dolohov cried out, head bent forward, greasy hair hanging past his eyes.

         “You will, indeed. I’ll enjoy this, Dolohov. I never did like your children,” Harry felt his face stretching into a grin.

         Then came the slaughter.

         He slashed throats with curses, brutally cut up every inch of bare flesh on the skin of Dolohov’s wife and children until the mans throat was raw from screaming. Only then did he finally allow Dolohov to die-lying frozen in the blood of his family.

         And Harry laughed, and laughed, and laughed.

         …

         Harry woke up because he didn’t have any shoes on, and it was freezing.

         He noticed his surroundings in small bursts of awareness. First the far away lanterns swinging in the wind. Then the dripping of water on stone. Then his bare feet, curling toes into a dirt marked ground.

         Harry had absolutely no idea where he was.

         He whimpered slightly, flashes of the dream he’d been having invading his conscious. There’d been blood, lots of it-coating his hands in thick, sticky rivulets. He’d gloried in killing those people, that family. He wanted to do it again.

         _No_.

         He had to find out where he was, get back to his flat and figure out what the hell was going on. He had to-

         His scar felt like it was being pried open by a pair of rough hands.

         Breath hissed through Harry’s clenched teeth as he fell into a crouch, steadying himself on the cold, wet floor of what looked to be an empty alley. This was torture. He felt like his forehead was burning from the inside, the tips of his messy hair singeing themselves down to little burnt crisps, and then-

         It was over, just like that.

         Harry stood on shaky legs, scrambling as quickly as he could in bare feet to the mouth of the alley. When he reached it he could just make out a faded sign in the light rain that fell, fogging his glasses.

         Borgin and Burkes. He was in Knockturn Alley. How he ended up there he had absolutely no idea, but somehow, somehow…

         He had to get home, he reminded himself. Clean himself up. But it wasn’t like he could tell anyone what had happened. Hermione and Ron hated that he kept the connection with Voldemort open instead of shutting it up tight and pushing it to the back of his mind like he was supposed to. And Slughorn had absolutely forbade him from keeping it open. So the only person he could go to was-

         Tom.

         He knew Tom would understand. Tom wouldn't judge him or berate him. Tom would tell him what to do.

         He pulled from the clogged reaches of his mind an offhanded, flung out comment that he hadn’t really been paying attention to at the time. Now, it was his salvation. Tom had mentioned his address when they’d gotten a drink that first night they met.

         He tried to take one more steadying breath so that he didn’t splinch, and apparated to his only hope.

         Harry was hesitant to knock on the door once he got there. It was all so tangible, now that he was standing here at the top of Tom’s stoop, the large, gothic brownstone he lived in. And it must be late, at least midnight. When Harry’d left from the bar with Sirius, it had been past ten.

         His hand moved as if on its own, picked up the round knockers and rapped it twice against the shiny black door.

         Tom probably wouldn’t hear him, anyway, Harry reasoned. He was probably asleep, or out, or-

         The door opened to reveal Tom, dark, soft curls slightly ruffled and mid thigh length dressing gown thrown over what looked like a matching set of pajamas.

         “Harry,” Tom’s eyes widened in surprise. “What’s wrong? Did something happen?”

         Harry opened his mouth, but let it fall closed. How could he explain what he was doing here, in the middle of the night, covered in rain and barefoot?

         “Come in,” Tom hustled him inside when Harry didn’t answer, hand landing against Harry’s lower back as he shut the door and Harry was enveloped in the warmth of Tom’s entryway.

         “You’re sopping wet,” Tom shook his head and reached up to brush a piece of damp hair from Harry’s forehead.

         “I’m sorry. I’m-I shouldn’t have come here,” Harry stuttered, cold enveloping his body and penetrating his bones.

         “What are you talking about? It’s perfectly alright. Come,” Tom lead him past rows of old, sleeping portraits and into a small parlor filled with bookcases, where a fire burned. He pushed Harry into one of the chairs.

         “I’m getting everything wet,” Harry protested pathetically.

         “There are spells for that. Here, that ought to feel better,” Tom fetched his wand from the dressing gown pocket and flicked it towards Harry. He was immediately enveloped in warmth and, when he put a hand to his shirt, felt it to be dry.

         “Thanks,” Harry muttered, curling his hands into fists at his side.

         “What happened?” Tom asked, taking a seat in the chair across from him.

         “I don’t…I don’t know,” Harry admitted. “One moment I was asleep and the next I woke up across from Borgin and Burkes in Knockturn, and I had no shoes on.”

         He wiggled his bare toes self consciously, kneading them into the plush rug.

         Tom was silent for a few moments. “Have you ever sleepwalked before?”

         “No,” Harry let out a frustrated breath and threaded a hand through his hair. “No, but I was having this dream, before. I was…I was killing someone, and then my scar hurt when I was in Knockturn and-“

         “Your hands,” Tom interrupted him, and the next thing he knew Tom was on his knees in front of him and holding both of Harry’s hands gingerly in his own.

         Harry’s breath caught as Tom inspected his hands with those dark, serpentine eyes. His long fingers trailed over Harry’s shorter ones, and it was only then that Harry noticed that his hands indeed looked worse for the wear. They had various cuts all over, and dirt had worked its way into his skin.

         “This might hurt a bit,” Tom murmured, grabbing his wand again and tapping it to Harry’s skin.

         Harry hissed and resisted pulling away as the cuts closed themselves and the dirt disappeared. All that was left was slightly tanned, rugged skin resting in pale, almost luminescent hands.

         Harry stared at his hands encased in Toms. He could feel Tom’s breath, warm on his skin, and he involuntarily tightened his grip.

         Tom started and pulled away, settling back into his chair. Harry tried not to blush.

         “I’m really sorry about waking you up,” Harry whispered, entwining his fingers together so that they didn’t feel the phantom caress of Tom’s fingers on his.

         “It’s no trouble at all. I was still up, actually. I suffer from bouts of insomnia,” Tom told him, crossing one leg over the other at the knee.

         “I used to try to keep myself up, sometimes. So I wouldn’t have th-the dreams,” Harry confessed, still looking down at his hands.

         Tom was silent across from him. When Harry finally forced himself to look up, the mans eyes were resting serenely on his face.

         “What are the dreams about, usually?” Tom asked, pressing his fingers together under his chin.

         “Death, usually. Or just snatches of things, like when he laughs, or-“ Harry cut himself off, heat spreading across his whole body.

         He’d almost let slip the forbidden word. Snatches of laughter or anger or _lust_. Harry still remembered, quite clearly, the time he’d woken up sixth year to blood rushing through his ears and the phantom imprint of a hand on his stomach, mouth, nipples. He remembered the way he’d fisted his cock and came within seconds, biting his pillow to stifle his moans. He’d never felt more ashamed, after; both for letting his guard down enough that Voldemort’s thoughts could slip through, and for letting the killers lust take him over, make him into some animal creature that lived only to eat and sleep and fuck. This was the man who had killed his parents, for God’s sake. Every time Ginny let her hands slip beneath his waistband after that, he secretly craved a stronger touch, one soaked in blood and death and years upon years of sin.

         “I think he left something, when the spell bounced back. When he tried to kill me,” Harry finished his sentence, trying to pull his mind from that night when he was sixteen and scared and alone.

         Tom tilted his head forward in a nod, eyes watching the carpet contemplatively.

         “Do you miss your parents?” Harry asked finally, to break the silence.

         Tom’s eyes shot up to his in surprise, and for a moment Harry thought he saw something more there, past the mask he was beginning to think Tom always kept on. He thought he saw a glint of betrayal, and deep, deep anger.

         And then it was gone.

         Tom shrugged. “My mother died when I was born. I don’t remember a thing about her-couldn’t miss her if I tried. And my father was…not a nice man. So no. I don’t miss them.”

         “I miss mine,” Harry admitted. “Not really them, I guess, but the idea of them. I don’t remember much either, I was so young when he-but little things. Like the smell of her perfume and the way his eyes crinkled when he laughed. Whenever I was with the Weasley’s, though, I was so jealous. I missed them because I was missing out on all the things a normal family had. And I think I was angry, a little, at them too. That I had to grow up with the Dursley’s because they were dead. That I couldn’t be normal.”

         Harry looked up finally because Tom was being quiet, and it was making him uncomfortable after his mini outburst. He found the man watching him with almost reverence in his eyes, full mouth hanging slightly open.

         “Yes. That’s it, exactly,” Tom breathed when Harry met his eyes. “I was always angry at her for being selfish enough to fuck that foolish prick and then not even have the decency to live and deal with what happened because of it.”

         Something rose in Harry’s throat as Tom talked, velvet voice rolling over the word ‘fuck’ like it was something filthy and private. It clogged his airways until he was having trouble breathing.

         “We’re very alike, you and I, Mr. Potter,” Tom continued, hands falling from his chin to rest on the arms of his chair. “Abandoned by our parents and left to raise ourselves. I think it made us stronger, though. They bred us to be survivors.”

         Something tickled the back of Harry’s mind at the way Tom said his last name, how it seemed oddly familiar, but then the thought was gone.

         “I should go,” Harry rose suddenly, feeling off kilter. “I have work in the morning.”

         “Of course,” Tom shook his head, as if to bring him back to the present. “Of course, the time got away from me. Are you alright to apparate home?”

         “Yeah, thanks. I-thanks for everything, Tom. I really appreciate it,” Harry hesitated, wanting to show the depths of his gratitude but not knowing how.

         Tom nodded at him and smiled warmly, mask back in place.

         “Anytime. Goodnight, Harry.”

         The last thing Harry noticed as he apparated home was the dark emerald of Tom’s dressing robe, and his dark, dark eyes.


	5. Chapter Five

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, my lovely readers :) Another chapter, and such a long one! I couldn't stop writing once I got going. Hope you like it!
> 
> Disclaimer: I own nothing.

Chapter 5:

         Harry was woken up bright and early by a pecking at his window.

         He rolled over with a groan, rubbing at the crust that had gathered at the side of his eyes. Checking the clock, he saw that it was ten minutes after seven. He’d barely had more than four hours of sleep.

         The pecking continued, and Harry grumbled as he pushed his way out of bed to let the owl in. It was a large, tawny female that Harry recognized from the Ministry. He gave it a treat to chew on as he untied the note from its leg.

_Potter-_

_Couldn’t reach through floo. Another murder. 154 Abbot Street. Get here asap._

_Slughorn_

Harry ground his teeth together and crumpled the note, nodding at the owl that she could leave. He hurriedly dressed in the jeans he’d thrown on the floor yesterday night and a Christmas jumper Mrs. Weasley had knitted him before taking a deep breath and apparating to the address on the note.

         The stench of blood and rot hit him as he steadied his feet in an unknown house.

         A spellchecker pointed him through a door on his left, and when he entered he saw Ron, Slughorn, and Tom were already at the scene.

         “Potter,” Slughorn rumbled, tottering up to him. “Traced his wand back to the attack on you and Riddle yesterday. This was one of the guys.”

         Slughorn gestured towards what appeared to be a dining room table, and Harry got his first look at the victims.

         And promptly felt like retching.

         His hands started shaking against his will, and he gripped the edge of his jumper to steady them. Merlin. _Merlin_. He knew those faces, every inch of them. He knew where they were cut beneath their clothes. He knew because he had killed them.

         The family who had been murdered were the Dolohovs.

         He couldn’t help but let out a strangled gasp as he took in the scene before him. Just like the other victims, the Dolohov’s were laid out as if about to eat a meal. But he knew that they hadn’t started that way-they had started groveling on their knees, begging for mercy. From Voldemort. From him. From _Harry_.

         “Everything alright, mate?” Ron looked worriedly towards Harry, and he could only shake his head wordlessly as he stared at the massacre.

         “I saw-I saw-I watched him do it,” Harry finally spit out the ugly words.

         “What?” Slughorn barked, moving up so that he was only inches away from Harry’s face. “What do you mean?”

         “I had a dream last night, and I saw him-Voldemort-kill them. I didn’t know it was real,” Harry’s voice faded to a whisper.

         Slughorn bared his teeth. “Didn’t I tell you to close the connection, boy? _Did you go against my orders_?”

         “I didn’t seek him out,” Harry retorted. “It just happened.”

         Slughorn glared at him for what seemed like long, impossible minutes but was probably only a few seconds before opening his mouth and spitting those poisonous, dreaded words straight at Harry’s heart: “You’re off the case.”

         Harry felt like time stopped.

         “What?” he finally stuttered out past his disbelief.

         “You’re off the case, Potter. You too, Weasley. It was a mistake putting you on it in the first place. You can’t even obey a _simple_ order to close up the connection,” Slughorn smiled an ugly, hideous smile. Harry wanted to smack him.

         “You can’t do that,” Harry lowered his voice, seething. “That’s not fair. What I do in my free time has nothing to do-“

         “When it endangers my people, it has everything to do with me, Potter. You think just because you survived him you’re special? You think you deserve preferential treatment because you’re _The Chosen One_?” Slughorn reared back his head and laughed.

         Harry felt his eyes go dark with rage. His jaw clenched. He took another step forward, and his hands still shook, but for a different reason now. He could just imagine it, feel the way his hands would close around Slughorn’s neck and squeeze the laughter and life out. He wanted to; _Merlin_ , did he want to.

         “Harry,” Ron’s voice was soft in his ear, snapping Harry out of the trance he’d let himself sink into at the invocation of Rita Skeeter’s deadly words that had followed him like an unwelcome shadow since fifth year.

         Harry turned from Slughorn and stomped out of the room without another word.

…

         “’S okay, mate, at least we’ll be able to slack off a bit now that Sluggy’s put us on desk work,” Ron clapped one drunken hand to Harry’s shoulder.

         Hermione rolled her eyes across from him, but gave Harry an encouraging smile.

         “I think it’s good for you, Harry. Slughorn should have known not to put someone so personally involved on the case in the first place,” Hermione patted his hand softly.

         “But I was more bent on finding him than anyone else there,” Harry told her miserably. “Now they’ve got Seamus and Dean on the case, and they’re good, yeah, but they don’t-they just don’t get it, Hermione.”

         “I’m sure they’ll be very helpful in finding him. Please, you need to stop worrying. The Ministry holiday ball is coming up and then we’re off for Christmas, and you can relax a bit,” Hermione pinched her lips together tightly, as if begging for Harry to concede.

         They didn’t understand. None of them understood. This wasn’t just some random killer he was trying to catch. This was the man who had changed the course of his life at the mere age of one. This was the man who had slaughtered his parents and tried to kill Harry. This was beyond personal-the urge to find Voldemort was ingrained into Harry’s very being, from the lightening shape scare the man had left behind to the pieces of his heart he’d cut out.

         “She’s right, Harry. You need to relax. Find a good bird to shag,” Ron laughed, almost tumbling over the edge of his chair.

         Harry shrugged and tried not to think about long fingers and too hot hands as Hermione rolled her eyes and they drank into the night.

…

         It was the annual ministry holiday ball, and Harry, for once, wasn’t dreading it. He’d met Ron and Hermione for drinks beforehand, and the buzz he’d worked up cast a soft glow over the impending evening of kiss arses trying to befriend him and Harry trying not to ask Dean and Seamus how the case was going. Hermione deemed him ‘very handsome’ in his dark green dress robes, and by the time they arrived at the gates of Hogwarts where Dumbledore had graciously allowed the party to be held, Harry was almost giddy.

         They stepped into the Great Hall and Hermione let out a gasp of awe. The trio stared wide eyed at the glass ceiling, enchanted to look as if it was snowing outside when in reality, it was just quite cold. All around them white cut outs and lush, tall trees held blinking, shining baubles. It was beautiful.

         “Potter! And Weasley and Granger, too! What a pleasure to see you all!” McGonagall giggled as she walked up to them on slightly tipsy feet. “My, how wonderful you three look.”

         Harry grinned at her. “Hello, Professor. You look great.”

         “Oh, Potter,” McGonagall blushed and swatted at him. “Always such a charmer.”

         Ron doubled over with laughter next to him.

         “Now go, go enjoy! Mr. Weasley, I’ve been meaning to ask you about your brother,” McGonagall tugged Ron back, and Harry waved at him with a grin. Ron flipped him off.

         “I’ll get us some drinks,” Hermione giggled, and suddenly Harry was alone.

         Despite the alcohol he’d consumed earlier and the anticipation he’d felt coming in only moments ago, Harry felt a wave of discomfort cover him. He hated being alone in such a crowded space. With Hermione by his side, everything was alright, but alone anyone could come over and start asking him about Voldemort and his scar and what it was like to survive the killing curse.

         “Harry,” a low voice sounded to his side, and Harry turned in relief to smile at Tom.

         “Hi. I didn’t know you’d be here,” Harry looked Tom over, and felt his heart almost give out.

         As much as he liked Tom dressed up to the nines for a work day, Tom in black dress robes was…magnificent. He was like some beautiful marble statue come to life and smiling at Harry like he was something special, something worth paying attention to.

         “Of course. Us Mysteries folks do venture out every once in awhile, you know,” one side of Tom’s mouth quirked up as he eyed Harry. “Slytherin green, I see. Are you sure you weren’t sorted into the wrong house?”

         Harry snorted, shaking his head. “Right. I didn’t even buy these, Mrs. Weasley did. Said they went with my eyes or something.”

         Tom’s dark eyes snapped onto Harry’s. “Right she was,” he murmured, and Harry felt his cheeks warming.

         “Harry, my boy,” a familiar, kind voice threaded through his ears like warm honey.

         Harry turned from Tom with a grin and immediately wrapped his arms around the man who had helped saved his sanity.

         “It’s great to see you, sir. This looks…amazing,” Harry gestured around as he pulled back.

         “Thank you. It’s always a pleasure to host the ball. It gives me a chance to keep tabs on old students,” Dumbledore smiled with that ever there twinkle winking behind his crescent glasses. “And Tom. How nice to see you. It’s been so long.”

         When Harry looked at Tom, the man seemed frozen solid at his side. His handsome, sharply cut face was like stone, and for a moment he really did look like the statue Harry was comparing him with earlier-cold, unfeeling eyes and tight features.

         “Albus,” Tom nodded his head once in greeting, extending a hand to shake Dumbledore’s older, time aged one.

         “I didn’t know you two were acquainted,” Dumbledore’s gaze flittered from Harry to Tom and back again.

         “We were working together on a case,” Tom told Dumbledore stiffly, tapping one long finger against his leg.

         Harry felt a pang go through him at the word ‘were’, past tense.

         “Of course, of course. I would never have pegged you both for getting along, but it seems even I can be wrong. Tom was a bit of a loner back in the day, although he did attract quite a few admirers,” Dumbledore chuckled, reaching over to pat Tom’s shoulder. The man flinched.

         “Well, I think I see Ms. Abbot, I must go say hello. Have a good evening, both of you,” Dumbledore nodded at them and ambled off.

         “I did not know you were so close with the headmaster,” Tom said after a few moments of silence. When Harry looked over at him the man was still holding himself tensely erect.

         “Yeah, he, um…yeah,” Harry gave up on trying to explain their complicated, fraught relationship. Too many stories to tell, too many personal, horrible, disgusting things he’d done.

         “Harry, I couldn’t find you anywhere. Here, I got you punch, I think Seamus spiked it with something though, it was smoking a bit, and-oh. Hello,” Hermione stopped her rambling as she paused, punch cup in hand, reaching half towards Harry.

         Tom smiled, and just like that he was back to his normal self. He held out his hand.

         “Hello. I’m Tom Riddle. It’s a pleasure to meet you,” he drawled, and Hermione quickly shoved the cup into Harry’s hand so she could shake Tom’s.

         “Hermione Granger,” she breathed, slightly starstruck and staring at Tom with wide eyes. “Harry mentioned he’d been working with someone from the Department of Mysteries. That must be fascinating.”

         Tom asked what Hermione did, and then they got to chatting about elfish rights. Harry’s attention wandered. In the corner, he saw Snape lurking like some a great bat, and vowed to keep away from him. Ron was at the buffet talking with Lavender, who’d gotten a job as the divination teacher after Trelawney had retired. Ron put his hand on her arm-Harry was guessing that he wouldn’t be accompanying Hermione and Harry back into London when this was over.

         Music swelled suddenly, and a rush of couples hurried to the dance floor, which had been cleared for the occasion.

         “Harry, we’re going to dance, alright? Here,” Hermione thrust her half empty punch cup at him as she took Tom’s elbow.

         Harry stared after them, and tried not to feel jealous.

         It wasn’t like he _liked_ Tom, like that. Except, well, his low voice did make Harry shudder and the things he said sometimes, God, Harry must always be turning beet red around him. And the other night he had been so kind, and it was like he understood, truly understood, what Harry was going through. Harry wouldn’t call himself strictly straight, either-admitting to liking or not liking Tom wasn’t a matter of questioning his sexuality. He’d enjoyed being with Ginny, but he’d also enjoyed kissing Cormac McLaggen in their charms classroom sixth year. So, yes, maybe Harry had a bit of a crush on Tom, who was, undeniably, straight. The way his hands moved to fit perfectly at Hermione’s waist, the way he tugged her in and whispered in her ear _just so-_

Harry nearly bolted out of the Great Hall.

         He flung open the doors to the patio and started walking along the cobbled ground, placing the two punch cups in the open hand of a statue as he went. It was freezing out, almost Christmastime, so the terrace was empty as far as Harry could see. Of course, that hadn’t stopped people from taking advantage of the various curving pathways and towering statues that lined the huge patio his fourth year during the Yule Ball. He couldn’t count on both hands the number of couples that had been traumatized by their snogging sessions being interrupted by Snape.

         Harry stopped in a hidden corner behind a tall line of bushes that looked out onto the grounds. His breath puffed mist into the air, and for a moment Harry imagined he was back at Hogwarts again. After the ball he would go upstairs to his warm bed in Gryffindor tower, and the next morning there’d be pumpkin juice and scones for breakfast.

         Harry didn’t know how long he’d been standing there before he heard a rustle in the bushes behind him.

         “I wondered where you had gotten to,” Tom stepped up beside him, hands resting lightly on the stone ledge beside Harry’s.

         “I’m not a fan of crowds,” Harry muttered, clenching his jaw as he nearly glared at the lake in the distance. “You seemed to be having fun.”

         “Hermione is a sweet girl,” Tom nodded, and Harry glared harder into the darkness. “But I don’t tend to like crowds either.”

         “Really?” Harry turned, anger momentarily forgotten. “You seemed so…I don’t know, natural. Charming.”

         Tom laughed, bitter. “I’ve become well practiced. It’s a byproduct of my job. I’m used to getting information out of people that don’t want to give it to me.”

         “Oh,” Harry looked down, twisting his fingers together. “Well you seem good at it. You’re job, that is. Apparently I’m not good enough at mine, since Slughorn moved me off the case.”

         Tom glanced over at him. “Slughorn is a brute. You’re an excellent Auror, Harry, at least from what I’ve heard.”

         Harry let out a laugh, but like Tom’s, it was hollow. “Yeah, I guess. God, when he said those things…I wanted to kill him. I couldn’t see straight, I was so angry. I wanted to fucking wrap my hands around his throat and…sorry. I’m probably freaking you out.”

         When Harry chanced looking up again Tom had moved a step closer. They were only inches away now, white imprints of their breath mingling between the shared space.

         Tom’s eyes were dark, and his full, pink mouth parted so that he could run his tongue over his lower lip. Harry felt something build up inside him until he was ready to burst, trembling with need.

         Footsteps sounded nearby, and Harry jumped away from Tom self-consciously. A dark figure appeared through the bushes, black robes flapping around him like wings.

         “Potter,” Snape drawled, stopping short when he saw who it was. “How…unexpected to find you here.”

         The words ‘and unpleasant’ lingered in the air.

         “Snape,” Harry nodded stiffly.

         Snape turned his gaze towards Tom and raised one dark eyebrow. “Riddle. I wasn’t expecting you to lower yourself to this kind of company.”

         Tom’s mouth spread wide in a smile. “Hello, Professor. It’s wonderful to see you again.”

         Snape stared him down for a few moments before nodding.

         “Stay out of trouble, Potter. Good evening, Riddle,” Snape turned and with a flourish was gone.

         Harry snorted and shook his head, the moment before they’d been interrupted broken.

         “God, he always hated me. Then again, my dad was a right prat to him, so I guess I don’t blame him,” Harry shrugged and shook his head again, still smiling. “I’d better go. Hermione and I always leave these things early.”

         Tom nodded at him silently, dark eyes roaming Harry’s face.

         Harry cleared his throat and blushed, nodding at him.

         “G’night, then. See you,” Harry raised his hand in a pitiful wave and took off through the bushes, back to bright lights and tinkling laughter.

         “Ready?” Harry reached Hermione, who was just ending a dance with Justin Finch-Fletchley.

         “Of course, let me just get my coat. I’ll meet you in the hall,” Hermione turned to him, cheeks flushed and stray curls falling from their bun onto her forehead.

         Harry slipped out of the doors and into the relative quiet of the darkened hall. He took a deep breath of the air; it still smelled like home, even five years after graduating.

         Footsteps sounded on the cobblestones, and suddenly a strong hand was gripping his and pulling him into a darkened alcove.

         Harry blinked as he was pushed against the cool wall, furrowing his brows up at the man who had grabbed him.

         “Tom? Wha-“ Harry started, but before he had a chance to take in darkened, pupil blown eyes or finish his sentence, those pink lips that had been pressed together so tightly earlier were on him.

         Harry froze as Tom’s mouth pressed into his, hands moving to grip his hips tightly enough to bruise. Tom was kissing him. _Tom was kissing him_.

         A small gasp of surprise opened Harry’s mouth, and Tom slipped his tongue inside to caress Harry’s teeth. Harry’s hands went automatically to tangle in the front of Tom’s robes, pulling him closer as Harry finally returned the kiss.

         Merlin, in all his fantasies, in all the dreams and wishes and hopes that Harry kept locked up tight in the back of his head next to the metal box that held Voldemort, Harry could never have imagined kissing Tom to be like this.

         He’d thought the man would be gentler; instead the kiss got impossibly deeper, tongues sliding and teeth grinding and nipping their way along lips. One of Tom’s hands slipped its way into Harry’s hair and tugged his head back and to the side so he could get at a better angle. Harry moaned, sliding his hands up to clutch at Tom’s shoulders, claw his nails into soft cotton. Tom sucked at his tongue, and Harry suddenly wanted more than anything in the world to be with this man: crawl inside his skin, burrow beneath his blood pumping veins, curl fingers around his bones, and become him.

         One of Harry’s teeth slipped over Tom’s full lower lip, nicking it hard enough that a bit of blood pooled between their mouths. Tom let out a low growl and Harry felt his heart flip and his cock fill. He was being pressed further into the wall, could feel Tom’s cock grind into his and-

         “Harry? Harry, are you here?”

         With a quick, heavy breath, Tom wrenched himself away and was gone, disappearing into the darkened corridor, leaving Harry panting and half hard in the alcove.

         He took a few moments to gather his breath before slipping out and smiling shakily at Hermione, raising his hand in a half hearted wave.

         “Here. Right here. Sorry.”

         “You’re always disappearing these days,” Hermione muttered, slipping on her cobalt coat and sliding her arm into his. “If I didn’t know you so well, I’d swear you were hiding something.”

…

         Later, as Harry slips into sleep and the darkness of his dreams, he feels anger.

_Furylostcontrolandangeratthestupidboyandlustandwanttokillherforinterruptingkillherkillherkillher-_

         The scene comes into shape and Harry is walking down a dark hallway, one that seems familiar but that Harry cannot quite place. At the end sits a door, and just as Voldemort reaches for the door the dream shifts to…

         Dudley is laughing at him from the ground and Harry is up in a tree. Dudley and his friends have been throwing water balloons filled with piss at eight year old Harry, and he scrambled up the tree because he knew Dudley would be too fat to come after him and…

         Voldemort is laughing, and a man with tangled hair to his shoulders is begging on the ground.

         “Do you think he’ll come for you?” Voldemort chuckles, breath hissing through the slits where his nose should be. “Do you think he’ll come play the savior one more time?”

         The long haired man looks up, and Harry wakes.

         He nearly falls out of bed in his haste to reach the fireplace. Grabbing a jar of floo powder, he throws some at the logs. They erupt to life with a warm green glow.

            “Hermione,” he gasps when he finally reaches her. “We’ve got to go to the Ministry. He’s got Sirius.”


	6. Chapter Six

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think this was the hardest chapter for me to write so far because it's so similar to canon. I really struggled with creating something unique within a story line that's already told so well within the original books, and I hope I succeeded at least a little bit! Sorry if some details are off from the book, to be honest I was too lazy to go fact check it. Hope everyone enjoys, and I'm not breaking too many people's hearts :)
> 
> Disclaimer: I own nothing.

Chapter 6:

         “What are we doing here, Harry?” Hermione whispered in the quiet of the Ministry’s atrium.

         “I saw him with Sirius, Hermione. He was torturing him to get to me,” Harry muttered back, briskly walking down the empty hallway.

         “Then don’t you think you should have called in other Auror’s? Slughorn, at least?” Hermione ran to catch up to him, Ron trailing silently behind her. “I mean, isn’t it a possibility that you saw just what he wanted you to see? And there’s no one here, not even security. There should be security.”

         Harry ignored her, knowing she was right. He couldn’t help it; although every instinct told him that he was walking right into Voldemort’s trap, that this was wrong-wrong-wrong, Harry had seen Sirius’ dejected face looking at Voldemort and his stark, stubborn eyes starting to drain of hope and life.

         “Creepy all empty like this, i’n it?” Ron kept his voice hushed in the empty, gaping grandiose of the ministry lobby.

         It was, Harry admitted to himself. Creepy and not at all right. Usually there would be a few security guards posted at various places throughout the lobby and a few checkpoints the trio would have to get through before even reaching the elevators, as they were doing now. The candles still burned in their torches on the walls, but other than that everything was dark and unnaturally silent.

         “You said you’d seen the door before?” Hermione asked as they entered an elevator and Harry pressed the button for level nine.

         “Yeah, in my hearing when Umbridge sent those Dementors after me fifth year. We passed it on the way to the court room. It’s the door that leads to the Department of Mysteries,” Harry told her quietly as the elevator pulled back and rushed down into the ground.

         Silence reigned.

         “That’s-that’s really dangerous, Harry. How do you even think we’re going to get in?” Hermione finally asked, just as the doors squeaked open.

         “I don’t know, Hermione, but we’ll just have to find a way,” Harry snapped as he half ran down the long corridor. He could see the door at the end, the same one Voldemort had pushed through in his dreams only half an hour ago.

         Hermione and Ron fell silent behind him, following with quick steps that echoed on the shiny black tiles. Harry reached the door after what seemed like endless, melting minutes. He could hear Sirius’ screams growing louder in his inner ear the longer they took.

         Harry reached for the doorknob, mirroring Voldemort’s earlier motion. For a moment his hand seemed to grow longer, paler.

         Then he was turning the knob and the door was swinging open.

         All three held their breath.

         “Get your wands out,” Harry instructed softly, taking a careful step inside and ending up on a round floor surrounded by doors painted various colors and made of hundreds of different materials. His hand felt sweaty as he adjusted his grip on his wand.

         The door slammed shut behind Ron, and all three jumped.

         “Which one is it?” Ron asked, voice hushed in the glowing darkness.

         “I don’t know. I guess we’ll just have to try some,” Harry took a breath and reached for the first door he saw, a small wooden one shaped like a hobbit hole.

         Stepping inside the room, he saw only a floor of lush, green moss. It rose from the ground and had started covering stark white walls. It was at least twenty degrees warmer than outside, and Harry felt his shirt starting to stick to his skin.

         “Wow,” Ron breathed, stepping further into the room. “What is this place?”

         A small squeak sounded from the back right corner, and out emerged a small fluffy animal about the size of a pygmy rabbit but shaped more like a cat, mixed with a mouse.

         “It’s so cute!” Hermione laughed, striding forward.

         The animal let out a hiss and a long, forked tongue snaked out. It bared its fangs at Hermione and leapt.

         She screamed, back peddling and whipping out her wand, but it was already a foot away, long, sharp claws protruding from its feet.

         “Stupefy!” Ron yelled, and the little animal fell with a heavy thump to the ground.

         “Come on, get out,” Harry heralded Ron and Hermione out the door and slammed it shut behind them.

         Hermione was breathing heavily, eyes wide as she stared at the closed door. An ache rose in Harry’s gut. God, she could’ve been hurt, she could’ve been-

         No. Sirius, this was all for Sirius. His stand in father, the man who’d given everything up for him, just so that Harry could have a little happiness. He couldn’t abandon Sirius now.

         “Come on,” Harry muttered to the floor, shame spilling hot and heavy deep in his gut.

         He reached for the next door, a glass one that showed nearly his exact image, slightly distorted. It didn’t open. The door after that was shiny black, and the knob twisted easily beneath his fingers.

         Harry stepped inside, followed by a subdued Hermione and Ron. The door shut softly behind them.

         The room was huge, filled with tall shelves that housed various glowing orbs and, when Harry looked closer, hastily scribbled names beneath.

         “What is this place?” Ron stepped closer to the shelves and reached for an orb.

         “Don’t. Don’t, Ron, those are prophecies. You can’t touch one unless it’s meant for you,” Hermione snapped, jerking back his arm.

         “How do you know?” Ron stared at her, nose scrunched in confusion.

         Hermione pinked. “I might have…um, well, there was this book on divination in the restricted section when I was trying to figure out homework for the class, before I quit, that is, and I came across a section on prophecies. They look exactly like the picture.”

         “You snuck into the restricted section to do homework,” Ron snorted, shaking his head.

         Hermione glared at him. “Well at least I _tried_ , Ronald, instead of making up nonsense about a great black death demon who wanted Harry dea-“

         “Guys,” Harry cut them off from a few shelves away, voice low. “This one has my name.”

         They went silent.

         Harry reached for the ball and slipped it off the shelf and into his hands, gingerly cradling it against his chest.

         “It has my name. I don’t-“ Harry started.

         A crash sounded from the far corner of the room.

         The trio looked at each other and grabbed for their wands, but a spell was already whizzing past their heads to hit a wall of prophecies, which shattered in a wave of glass. Transparent figures rose from the mess, spouting out various nonsensical words over each other in a chorus of untrained voices.

         “Harry, run!” Hermione screamed, dodging another spell. More glass shattered around them, pouring down over their heads like rainwater.

         “I can’t! Hermione, I need to find him!” Harry yelled back, already running towards the source of the spell, slipping the small glass prophecy into his back pocket.

         A cackle sounded from his right, and Harry barely had time to shout a harried ‘protego’ before another spell bounced towards him. Two men whose faces were covered in long white masks appeared, smiles cracking their unknown faces. One had long, pale blonde hair. _Malfoy_.

         No Sirius here, then. Harry shot a stupefy towards them and ran back the way he came.

         Except the path wasn’t clear anymore, and now familiar faces had appeared to spill through the doorway towards the group of masked men and women exploding from the shadows. Thank God for Hermione, Harry thought as he wriggled through a crush of bodies. She must’ve sent an owl to Slughorn’s, and he’d rallied every troop he could find. Harry saw a flash of Tonks’ bright pink hair and the glint of Kingsley’s earring, but they were overtaken by other dark figures, both Aurors and Voldemort’s followers. Death Eaters, Harry vaguely remembered the name from a glance at old records. He’d called his followers his eaters of death, taking life into their hands and shattering it with ease, playing gods. They always broke so easily, though, the ones the Ministry managed to capture. Information spouted from them like water from a broken faucet. They’d terrorized him into various life threatening situations throughout his years at Hogwarts, but every teacher had thought they were stragglers left over from Voldemort’s little cult, ones who couldn’t quite believe his rebounding curse had killed him. And they’d been right, in the end. He’d played them all for fools.

         Harry managed to duck under another curse that flew at his head and out the door to the room of prophecies. People were fighting in the halls, and it seemed like every able fighter from the Ministry had been called in to deal with the situation. Harry looked, but he couldn’t spot Tom’s slicked back waves anywhere.

         He heard a familiar laugh booming from the room on his far left, and immediately took off towards it. He stepped into the doorway, eyes hungrily searching the room for any signs of messy, shoulder length black hair and a whip smart grin. The room was empty except for a dais that held a plain doorframe and the various fighting Aurors and Death Eaters surrounding it. In the door hung a black curtain that seemed to billow in non-existent winds.

         Another laugh, and this time Harry caught Sirius’ quick movements easily. He was fighting a woman with long, wild black curls, a deranged smile painting her face wide as a jack o’ lantern.

         “Sirius!” Harry cried out in relief.

         Sirius turned his head towards Harry’s voice, grin still cracking his face.

         A spell hit his chest, green as Harry’s eyes. Sirius fell.

         Time slowed. Harry could remember every millisecond of movement that made up the last time he saw his godfather. A smile was still frozen onto his face as he tipped backwards, arms holding themselves in a fighting stance as his body fell back back back through the dark, billowing curtain. And then he was gone.

         “No!” Harry screamed, time rushing back to its proper place, making his head hurt and eyes blur. “No! Sirius!”

         Harry leapt towards the backside of the dais, but behind the curtain there was no body. He lunged for the doorframe, but was yanked back by broad hands pulling wrinkles at his shirt. 

         “Harry. Harry, stop. He’s gone,” Remus’ voice whispered in his ear, warm breath coating his hair in peppermint as his strong arms came around Harry’s chest to hold him like a vice. “He’s gone.”

         Harry’s voice, his protests and pleas and denials all froze in his throat. His vision went red at the sound of manic laughter, and his gaze focused in the curly haired woman who’d hit Sirius with her spell as she disappeared through the doorway of the room.

         He was going to kill her.

         Harry wrenched himself away from Remus’ grip with a snarl, stare focused in on one thing-the woman, and her retreating, monstrous, death embalmed head. His path following her out of the Department of Mysteries was clear: he walked by dueling couples without a single spell touching him, intent on finding the woman who’d ended his only family’s life.

         He surged after her as she disappeared into an elevator, apparated himself into the atrium without a second thought to the wards that should have been in place. He caught her just as she appeared.

         “Aveda Kedavra!” he screamed, hurling curse after unforgivable curse at her. She just laughed, that high pitched, unhinged laugh, dodging every last one.

         He changed course, shot out a ‘cruciatus’ instead. Watched as it made contact with her body, lifted her spine up so that her limbs contorted and her laughter turned to screams of horror and pain. Harry just smiled. Smiled and smiled and smiled.

         When it ended, when he’d finally had enough, she lay broken on the floor, the force of his spell cracking her bones. A pulse beat fluttered quick and light in her neck as he approached, and Harry crouched down beside her, bearing teeth shiny and sharp as a sharks.

         “I hope you burn in hell,” he whispered, and killed her.

         The silence was deafening. In the sudden quiet of the empty atrium, the only thing Harry could hear was his own breath, panting and wet in his burning lungs. His hands shook.

         Clapping sounded, heavy and slow somewhere behind him. He rose and turn, heart seizing in his throat when his eyes lit on an all too familiar white face, noseless slits.

         “Well done, Mr. Potter, I must say. The way you _prolonged_ it, made her scream-I couldn’t have done it better myself,” Voldemort grinned, showing pointed teeth and a serpents tongue.

         “Shut up,” Harry said, voice low and scraped rough from screaming. “Shut the fuck up.”

         Voldemort looked delighted as he stopped ten feet from where Harry stood. Harry could see the blood red mixed with crimson so clearly in the murderer’s eyes it was like looking in the mirror.

         “My, my, no need for that. I’m just _proud_ , is all. And isn’t that all you’ve ever wanted, Harry Potter? For someone to be proud of you?” Voldemort’s voice was a low purr in his throat, sneaking out to wrap its filthy hands around Harry’s neck.

         Harry closed his eyes around the sudden onslaught of grief and fatigue that hit him down to the bone. He was so tired of this. He was so tired of fighting and killing and seeing blood wash the floors of every home he stepped into. He was so tired of being Harry Potter.

         “What do you want with me?” Harry asked, opening his eyes, face suddenly heavy with regret and anguish. “Please, just tell me what you want.”

         Voldemort stared at him for what seemed like endless moments, the only sounds in the atrium their joint breath.

            “I want you,” he said finally, simply, eyes boring into Harry’s. “All I want is you.”


	7. Chapter Seven

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi! Just a kind of depressing chapter overall, but I end it on a semi happy note, so I hope you guys don't mind too much. Another harder one for me to write, because so much happens and yet doesn't happen all at once, if that makes sense (that sounded better in my head). It's about to get way darker, I do give warning. 
> 
> P.S. I'm sorry I keep drastically hurting/killing characters. I'm probably going to Harry Potter hell. 
> 
> Disclaimer: I own nothing.

Chapter 7:

         “What do you mean, you want me?” Harry spit towards Voldemort, eyes ablaze in fury and frank confusion. Of all the things that Harry could’ve imagined, it would never have been this.

         “I want to _own_ you, Mr. Potter. I want to shatter you and rebuild you from your ashes. We’re so alike, you and I. We could be great together,” Voldemort smiled, almost fond. “We could rule the world. They would tremble in our shadows.”

         Harry was speechless. This was what the serial killer wanted? He’d murdered Harry’s family, tried to murder him, and now Voldemort wanted them to be partners in dominion over the wizarding world?

         “We’re nothing alike,” he finally said, but the words sounded hollow even to his ears. Of course they were alike: they shared a mind, were each halves to a whole. If Harry was anything, he was bound to Voldemort.

         Voldemort threw back his head, exposing the long, white column of his throat, and laughed. It was vaguely reminiscent of something, and Harry shivered with foreboding.

         A pop sounded from behind Harry, and then a low, kindly voice was said, “Hello, Voldemort.”

         The man-or beast, whatever he was-stopped laughing then.

         “Dumbledore,” Voldemort hissed, baring his teeth in all their serpentine glory, and apparated away with a snap that echoed throughout the vast atrium.

         Harry held his breath.

         A hand descended on his shoulder, fragile and light as a hummingbird.

         “We have so much to discuss, Harry,” Dumbledore said quietly behind him, and Harry bowed his head, letting the puddle of grief and horror the night had brought finally wash over him. “I hear you have an office in the Auror Department. Why don’t we go there.”

         …

         “How long have you known?” Harry asked, hands threading impatiently through his already messy hair. “How long have you kept this hidden from me?”

         Dumbledore sighed and removed his glasses to rub at those x-ray eyes, blue as a crystalline pool glistening beneath the sun.

         “Since before you were born,” Dumbledore admitted, sliding his glasses back up his nose. “That’s why your family was so different, not his normal muggle born victims. He sought you out, tried to kill you for what that prophecy says.”

         They both took a moment to stare at the orb placed in the middle of Harry’s desk. It glowed softly, illuminating stacks of unfinished paperwork and old pictures of Harry and his friends from his time at Hogwarts.

         “What does it say?” Harry whispered, reaching out to run a finger down it’s cool exterior. “What threat could I have possibly posed to him?”

         Dumbledore gazed at Harry for long moments, time dripping like heavy sap from a tree.

         “It says that there would be a boy born on the thirty first of July in the year of 1980. It says that the boy would either rule with him, or be his greatest downfall. He didn’t want to take the chance,” Dumbledore told him finally. “Now that he has you, alive, well and fully matured, he must want for the other outcome. He wants you to rule, Harry. He wants to kill every muggleborn and make sure that purebloods reign all powerful in the wizarding world.”

         “But I don’t want that. I never wanted anything of this,” Harry stood suddenly, knocking over his chair in the process. “I’m so tired of people thinking that I _chose_ to survive him. I didn’t do anything! I was one years old!”

         Dumbledore regarded him quietly.

         “I didn’t want anyone to get hurt because of me,” Harry said finally, voice cracking as he righted his chair and slumped into the seat. “I’m sick of being the Boy Who Lived.”

         Dumbledore didn’t respond, let the weight of his world rest on Harry’s shoulders for a little while longer. Eventually he rose, took a lemon candy from his pocket, and slipped it into Harry’s hand.

         “You’ve been so very brave, my boy. It would do you well to remember that one must not be brave all of the time,” Dumbledore patted his hand and slipped out of the office.

         Harry sat for a few more minutes in silence, staring at his surrounding office which he had seen too much of in the past week, now that he and Ron stuck doing filing reports. At the head of his desk there was a picture of him, Ron, and Hermione at their graduation. They were all grinning at the camera and had their arms wrapped tightly around each other. He’d been so happy then, innocently believing he could move on from his past and start a new life with…Harry shuddered, couldn’t even think his godfathers name.

         He got up and reached into the first drawer of the desk, pulling out a small picture crumpled from overuse. In it his parents were holding a burbling Harry on his first birthday. His father was looking proudly at the camera, holding up Harry like a trophy. Lily was grinning at James with pure adoration in her eyes. Harry loved this picture; Remus had given it to him for his seventeenth birthday, and he’d kept it close ever since.

         Harry stashed the picture in his jeans pocket along with the lemon candy, and locked the door on his way out.

…

         He arrived into chaos.

         Healers were everywhere, loading fallen wizards and Death Eaters onto stretchers to be taken to St. Mungo’s. Harry saw Tonks’ hair from the corner of his eye as she talked to the Minister, who was standing looking green in the corner of the atrium, surveying the damage. Harry’s eyes moved to search for Hermione, who he spotted crying across the hall from him.

         His breath caught in horror as he hurried over to her. What had happened? Who else had been killed?

         “‘Mione, wha-“ he started, and she threw herself into his arms with a sob.

         “It’s Ron. It’s Ron,” she hiccuped, rubbing her wet eyes on his jumper. “We got separated and they hit him and oh, gods-“

         Harry’s heart froze. He didn’t know if he could bear it, the thought of Ron, dead because Harry had dragged him here to save…could this night get any worse?

         “He’s not dead, but they say he’s in critical condition,” Hermione gasped out, pulling away, eyes puffy with tears. “I contacted his mum and the whole family’s at Mungo’s now. We can’t see him for a few days because they’re running tests. They don’t know what type of curse he was hit with, but he was barely breathing when I found him.”

         Harry made a pathetic noise in the back of his throat and dragged Hermione back to him, enveloping her smaller body in his arms. They stayed there for a long, long time, crying together in the wake of destruction.

…

         A week had passed since the incident at the Ministry.

         Harry hadn’t gone into work since the night that had changed everything. He could barely get up from his bed to make it to the bathroom and back again. Hermione had managed to corral him into a suit and brush back his hair for Sirius’ funeral a few days after his death, but other than that Harry didn’t leave the house. He couldn’t take it, the knowing looks he got from other wizards, the blame filled eyes. Friends and family had been killed in the fight. A bloody massacre, they were calling it. And all because of Harry.

         Worst of all, he could still remember the exact rush of excitement that flooded his brain with endorphins the moment his cruciatus first hit Bellatrix, the way her screams lit him up inside. He awoke from nightmares of her cackling mouth turning bloody most nights, and found that it was easier to just take a sleeping draught to lull himself into oblivion.

         It was almost Christmastime. Lights twinkled from outside Harry’s windows, and he could hear drunks singing Christmas carols in the street below. He’d never felt more alone.

         Hermione sent owls every so often with news of Ron, who had been put into a magically induced coma so that he could hopefully heal himself from whatever lasting damage had been done from the curse. He got letters of condolences, too, about Sirius, but he never read any of them. He’d made a fire the night after the funeral and burned every piece of paper addressed towards him to a crisp.

         He remembered between bouts of sleeping and drinking the Christmas’ that had come after he moved in with Sirius. He’d never liked Christmas until he got to Hogwarts and met the Weasley’s, and they’d made him a seventh son. After he’d moved in with Sirius, they spent their first year together alone, sitting by the tree with a fire crackling at their backs, hot coco in hand and presents wrapped prettily beneath the starlight.

         “How’d you survive Azkaban for so long without going mad?” Harry had asked him.

         Sirius stared off into the fireplace, hands firmly grasping his mug.

         “I thought of you,” he said finally, voice quiet. “I thought of your dad, your mum, and of you.”

…

         “Harry! We’ve missed you,” Mrs. Weasley tugged him into a firm, warm hug as he stepped in from the cold morning air.

         “I’ve missed you too, Mrs. Weasley. How’re you?” Harry asked, voice muffled by the short woman’s hair.

         “Oh, we’re holding up,” she stepped back, holding Harry at an arm’s length and examining him with motherly eyes. “You look thin. Did you get the packages I sent?”

         Harry nodded, and didn’t tell her that they still lay uneaten in his fridge.

         “Well, come in, come in, everyone’s eager to see you,” Mrs. Weasley ushered him towards the living room, smile tinged with sadness. “It isn’t good to be alone, at a time like this.”

         Harry greatly disagreed. He thought it was the perfect thing to be alone, at a time like this.

         He shuffled into the living room and plastered on a fake smile, nodding and shaking his head in answer to the questions thrown towards him. Fred and George were whispering about something in the corner, and Percy was seated primly by the tree. Remus got up to give him a hug when he entered the room. He could tell that the man was about as happy to be here as Harry was. He exchanged hurried hellos with Hermione and Arthur, who were busy helping Mrs. Weasley in the kitchen.

         The doorbell rang not soon after Harry had taken a seat on the couch next to Remus, who was telling him about his latest research on the power of wolfsbane when administered to werewolves every day for a week before the full moon, and only a couple of days before.

         Mrs. Weasley appeared in the doorway, trailed by a tall, put together man with dark hair and chalk white skin.

         Harry’s breath caught.

         Tom.

         What was he doing here? Harry hadn’t heard from him in the week since their kiss at the Ministry ball, and had figured Tom was embarrassed and regretted the whole affair. Harry had felt humiliated, when thinking about it after-the way he’d clutched at Tom’s sweater and just let him _take_ like that, it was, well, it was…Harry didn’t exactly know what it was, but he sure as hell didn’t feel comfortable discussing anything of the sort with his friends. Friend. Ron was still stuck in the hospital, drugged.

         “Hermione mentioned that Tom said he had no plans for Christmas at the ball, so I thought it would be nice for him to join us. Tom, that’s Bill, my oldest, and those two over there are Fred and George and-oh, you two, I know which one is which for goodness sake-“

         Harry stopped listening and took the moment to examine Tom. He looked the same; same black and white picture coloring, perfectly curled hair, and stick straight posture. He wore slacks and a casual button down with the sleeves rolled up to reveal strong, wiry forearms. Harry remembered the strength in his arms when he’d pushed Harry up against the wall of the alcove, gripped his hair so tightly it made Harry’s eyes tear, and-

         Harry looked away and took a large gulp of air. He needed to stop thinking like this. Tom obviously didn’t want him.

         “Hello, Harry,” that all too familiar voice sounded low and musical in Harry’s ears. How many times had he fantasized to that voice calling his name?

         “Tom,” Harry let himself look at the man again and tried to calm the pitter-patter of his raging heart.

         Tom’s eyes were dark and intent on Harry’s, and Harry felt his stomach flip.

         “Mr. Riddle, I’m Remus Lupin,” Remus smiled at him warmly and extended a hand for a firm handshake. “Great to meet you. I heard you worked with Harry a bit on a case from-um, yes, anyways. You work in the Department of Mysteries, right?”

         Harry closed his eyes and tried to draw a breath. He’d heard that from Sirius. Harry knew it.

         Remus dropped the name of a friend who Tom might know, and they chatted for a bit, leaving Harry lost in his own thoughts. What was he supposed to say, if Tom wanted to talk about what happened at the ball? That he’d be happy to do it again some time? That he was fine with no strings attached, nothing serious? That he understood if Tom was now disgusted by him and never wanted to speak to him again?

         “Harry?” Tom interrupted his long, winding musings. Harry blinked and jerked his head sideways to rid it from the panic building there.

         Remus had gone, and everyone else was engaged in conversations around the room. Tom took the empty seat next to Harry.

         “How have you been?” Tom asked, voice quiet enough that they wouldn’t be overheard in the business of the room.

         Harry shrugged and glanced away. How to answer that? He’d been horrible, if he was telling the truth. Depressed beyond belief. Contemplating killing himself to end the trouble he seemed to cause.

         Harry opened his mouth to say he was fine, but instead blurted out, “Do you know the room in the Department of Mysteries with the doorway and the curtain?”

         Tom stared at him silently for a few moments, eyes wide in surprise, before nodding.

         “Yes. I’ve seen the room a few times, though the work they do in there is not my…expertise,” Tom said, choosing his words carefully.

         Harry took a breath, looked away towards the Christmas tree and then back again, hope blooming in his chest.

         “Do you know if anyone who’s ever gone through there, has ever come…back?”

         Tom’s breath rushed out of his lungs in a long sigh. “Oh, Harry. I’m afraid not.”

         Harry felt like Tom was holding Harry’s heart in his hands, and slowly crushing it beneath his fingers.

         He nodded and shrugged. “It’s okay. I was just wondering.”

         Quiet descended on the couch, as they sat side by side not saying anything else until dinner was called a few minutes later.

         Harry sat between Hermione and Remus at the table, and wasn’t forced to talk much. Tom seemed to be a great hit on the other end of the kitchen with Bill and Charlie.

         Afterwards, they all sat in the living room again and drank firewhiskey and butterbeer. Harry declined any; he’d had enough the past few days to last him a lifetime.

         Ginny took a seat next to Harry and smiled at him charmingly, slipping an arm around his shoulders.

         “Hey, there. Haven’t seen you in awhile, yeah?” she leaned into him, breath ghosting along his cheek.

         He smiled, the first genuine smile he’d had in a long time, and tugged at her long red hair.

         “Maybe there’s a reason for it pipsqueak, ever think of that?” he countered, mouth twitching upwards.

         Ginny huffed and pulled her arm away, nose scrunching in mock irritation. “Well, then, if it’s going to be like that.”

         She pretended to stand and Harry laughed, tugging at her embroidered G sweater so she could sit back down. She fell onto the couch with a giggle and touched his leg with hers.

         Harry felt the heavy weight of a gaze on them, and when he looked up he caught Tom’s eyes, firmly fixed on the two. Harry swallowed, smile disappearing as butterflies burst into his chest.

         Ginny poked his cheek. “Cat got your tongue?”

         Harry turned back to Ginny and shook his head, a grin lighting his face. “Nah. Only thinking about how lucky I am, to have you guys here every year.”

         Ginny rolled her eyes but Harry could tell he had touched her, in a way. And he was happy, all at once, to be with family on a holiday in which he used to receive half eaten cookies and lukewarm mince pie. Christmas was a time to be grateful for family, Harry remembered Sirius saying fondly. Grateful for what you’ve got, even if you’ve lost so much already.

            He thought that Sirius would probably be proud of Harry for showing up to the Weasley’s and not shutting them out like he was wont to do when upset. And for the first time all week, Harry felt the weight on his chest lift lighter.


	8. Chapter Eight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello and happy holidays! I'm sorry it's been so long: I've had a million things to do and college shit and going to visit family and such, but I've managed to finally pump out this chapter! 
> 
> Apologies for anyone who wasn't expecting the little death in here. It's not a major character, at least in my mind, but definitely integral for pushing the story along so it had to be done. I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm sorry! 
> 
> Also wow, this story has been getting waaaaay more angsty lately. Sorry about that too, but as Harry's getting more under Voldemort's clutches, I guess he's bound to get moodier. He is being stalked by a serial killer, after all. 
> 
> Anywhoo, hope you enjoy and have a good New Year! 
> 
> Disclaimer: I own nothing.

Chapter 8:

         _The screams vibrated through his ears and towards his stomach, making it swish in discomfort. He watched as Bellatrix writhed on the floor, arms twisting beneath her body, holding themselves stiffly, unnaturally straight._

_Blood came gushing from her throat suddenly like a dam had been opened, and Harry could feel it coating his bare feet, calves. Somehow his hand holding his wand was sticky with it. He looked to the side of the Ministry atrium, and saw in the shiny tiles his reflection. Except it wasn’t him that was staring back, it was a white face, devoid of a nose, and as Harry watched a smile split his face and sharp teeth bared themselves and-_

Harry fell out of bed with a gasp, panting wet breath out into the cool air of his flat. His knees hurt-he’d landed on them oddly, and his hands had skidded across the wooden floors of his bedroom and stung like hell. Sweat soaked itself through his t-shirt, and when he finally pulled himself up, his sheets were twisted and damp as well.

         He muttered a quick cleansing charm and ambled to the shower, turning the faucet to its hottest setting and letting the water cascade down his back and soak through his hair.

         Harry was tired. He was tired a lot these days, tired from not sleeping and worrying about Ron in the hospital and thinking about Sirius. It was the type of tired that reached his bones, tugged at his muscles until they became sore and battered his eyes until they got red.

         When Harry finally turned off the shower he could hear the doorbell ringing. Rushing to his bedroom he pulled on a fresh pair of boxers and his jeans from the day before, the jumper barely making it over his head as he undid the wards on his door and swung it open.

         Slughorn stood in the doorway, face grim.

         “You need to come with me.”

         …

         “Before we go in, I need you to know that this is not my choice to let you back on the case. It’s all coming from the higher ups, you know,” Slughorn wrinkled his nose in disgust.

         “What about Seamus and Dean?” Harry asked, pushing his glasses up his nose and trying to flatten his hair.

         The skin around Slughorn’s mouth tightened. “Part of the problem. They were found knocked out by a magical blast earlier this morning. Both fine but they’ll be in St. Mungo’s for awhile. At first we thought it was Mr. Finnigin’s proclivity to fire that caused the blast, but then we found the body and…well. You’d better see for yourself.”  

         Harry took a deep breath of fresh air and followed Slughorn into the rather dilapidated, obviously abandoned house.

         The first thing he saw was the wall. Covered in blood, and largely printed in the stuff was his name, H-A-R-R-Y, spelled out as if in the red ink Snape used to grade Gryffindor’s papers with. The second thing he noticed was the body: how small it was, curled in a fetal position like a child, how different from the other murders. More personal.

         The third thing he noticed was the hair.

         Bright, striking orange, visible even covered in rivulets of blood.

         A choked sound flew from Harry’s mouth, and he barely stopped himself from crumbling to the ground. Ginny. But maybe…maybe it was some other girl, some other redheaded, sweet, kind, fiery girl who-but no. Harry crouched, gingerly reaching to push strands of tangled hair from her face. Ginny, clearly Ginny.

         He pulled his hand away and felt them tighten into fists at his sides.

         “When did you find her?” he asked, voice low, still crouched, staring at the bloody ground beside her head.

         “Around dawn. The mark appeared above the house and a muggle spotted it, reported it to the police, who reported it to us. Dean and Seamus were found around then, too,” Slughorn reported, voice tired. Harry looked up at him, and for once saw him as just a man, murder after murder flung towards him and an angry Minister on his back about a decades old cold case and a psychotic serial killer on the loose. “We decided it was best to call you in because…well. He obviously wants you.”

         Harry’s breath stuttered out and he looked back at Ginny’s body, pale and bloated. Of course Voldemort wanted him. The killer had told him specifically that just weeks ago, hadn’t he?

         “Sorry I’m late, Horace,” a low, cultured voice flooded the scene, and Harry closed his eyes.

         Not now, of all times. He didn’t want to face Tom like this, in all his misery, at his lowest. The cause of so many deaths, so much pain. In that moment, Harry wanted more than anything else to be someone else.

         “Not a problem, Riddle. I think we’ve got everything we need for now, though, sorry to take you away from work,” Slughorn nodded at Tom and motioned for Harry to stand.

         “Get some rest, boy. I’ll call you with more details. Just thought…well, thought you might want to see it yourself, is all,” Slughorn cleared his throat and patted Harry awkwardly on the back. Harry couldn’t help but appreciate it.

         He hurried from the house and the rotting, humid, musty air. Finally let his hands rise up to his head and hurled choking breaths out at the empty street, sun slowly rising above the horizon. It must’ve been around seven, people just waking up and readying for their day.

         “Harry,” a soft voice sounded behind him.

         Harry swallowed, gathered his courage deep in his chest, and turned.

         He wasn’t prepared for the sight of Tom in the morning sun. He thought that after a week the shine of the mans looks would wear off, but they just seemed _more_ somehow. His hair _more_ shiny, his eyes _more_ dark, his lips _more_ pink. And what was it with the man and suspenders? They made Harry want to take them and _tug_ , hard, until they crashed into one another and never came apart again.

         But Tom hadn’t called, after their kiss at the Ministry ball. And they hadn’t talked since Christmas, and he hadn’t heard head or tails of the man since Mrs. Weasley mentioned how charming he was.

         And now Ginny was dead, and here he was.

         “Hello, Tom,” Harry cleared his throat against the sudden lump that threatened to spill its way out.

         “Would you like to come over for a drink after dinner, say around eight? I’d like to talk to you,” Tom smiled, but his eyes gave nothing away.

         No. Nonono, Harry wanted to say and cry and shout, no, because his second father was dead and his best friend was in the hospital in a coma and his pseudo-sister had just been murdered, and all because of him. But he couldn’t say ‘no’ to Tom, to the way those cheekbones cut his skin like they were threatening to burst out from its surface, and the way his hair curled just so on his forehead, so instead he murmured, ‘yes.’

         Tom nodded and disapparated, and Harry was left alone in his dust.

…

         “Everything sucks,” Hermione said the moment she walked into his door.

         She hurried her way to his couch and plopped down, eyes puffy and red.

         “Everything sucks and everyone dies, so what’s the point?” she repeated, and then stifled her sobs into her hands.

         Harry took a breath and treaded slowly over to sit with her, wrapping her in his arms. She felt familiar there, calm and safe. Here in Harry’s flat, together, no one could touch them, not even Voldemort.

         “I know,” Harry whispered into her wild hair. “I know.”

…

         Harry took a deep breath and let his knuckles wrap firmly on the door of Tom’s brownstone. He only had a few moments to collect himself before it swung open, and there was Tom.

         “Come in,” Tom gestured, stepping back just far enough that their shirts barely brushed as Harry entered the foyer.

         Harry opened his mouth to say something, shut it, opened it again.

         “You should stay away from me,” he finally managed, still not looking at Tom. He could feel the man’s presence behind him, though, like he always could. Could feel his stare burning its way into the back of Harry’s head.

         Tom was silent, so Harry turned to face him.

         “You should stay away. I’m not good for anyone, you know. Everyone who ever gets close to me ends up dead or nearly so,” Harry burst out, anger turning his vision black and fuzzy around the edges. “You shouldn’t ask me for drinks, or to chat, or even for a file at work, because I’m _bad for everyone_.”

         “You’re not bad for anyone, Harry. It just so happens that a killer targeted you, found you special, and-“ Tom started, but Harry surged forward, grabbing up those suspenders like he wished he could earlier and pushing Tom against the hallway wall.

         “You don’t. Fucking. Get it. He’ll _kill you_ , you stupid, arrogant man,” Harry snarled, before slamming his lips into Tom’s.

         There was a moment of surprise, and then hesitation, and then they were kissing. Teeth warring, tongues tangling, violent kissing. Tom tried to take control of his mouth like last time but Harry wouldn’t let him, snaking his tongue in and running it over Tom’s teeth.

         Tom let out what sounded like a strangled gasp when Harry pulled away and moved his lips to Tom’s jaw, his neck, his collarbone beneath the two open buttons of his shirt. He greedily sucked the skin there, one hand moving from Tom’s suspender to grab his perfectly put together hair and yank his head to the side.

         Tom pushed them away from the wall and stumbled backwards into what Harry vaguely remembered as the parlor from his last visit. Harry followed as Tom fell onto the antique, expensive looking couch, mouths back together, Harry’s teeth closing around Tom’s lip and making the usually put together man groan.

         Tom wrapped his arms around Harry to pull him closer, pushing himself into Harry’s body and hardening cock. Harry grunted, grinding down against him. Too many layers of clothes and Harry could still feel Tom’s heat and the way his cock was heavy against Harry’s hip.

         Just as when they first kissed, Harry wanted to twist them together, crawl inside his skin and melt their organs until they turned into one, climb around inside his body and clutch onto his bones. He wanted everything, everything, everything.

         Harry maneuvered his thigh between Tom’s legs and pushed up, and Tom’s breath caught, hands scrambling for purchase against Harry’s back, squeezing and pulling and scratching. His fingers slipped beneath Harry’s jumper and left their mark with his nails, skimmed over his hips and stomach and reached down to tug at his jean clad arse. Harry slipped another two buttons on Tom’s shirt open with a shaking hand and dragged his teeth and tongue down to lick at Tom’s nipple, reveled in the way the older man moaned. He drew his mouth back up to Tom’s, and Tom sucked hard on his tongue. Harry let out what might’ve been a whimper but he couldn’t really be sure, because his mind was so caught up in _TomTomTom_ that he couldn’t take a moment for anything else.

         And when Harry finally tugged his mouth away to catch a breath, he knew he would remember this image forever, store it in that special part in the back of his mind, right with his first meeting with Ron and Hermione and the way Sirius’ laugh boomed out of his chest and the way his mothers eyes had crinkled when she smiled: Tom, eyes squeezed shut as if in pain, back arching off the couch, mouth parted and heavy, damp breath bursting from his lungs.

         He felt Tom come with Harry’s thigh tucked tightly against his cock and Harry couldn’t do anything but bury his face in Tom’s neck and mouth at his salty skin and do the same, bursting in his jeans like some schoolboy.

         When Harry came back to himself, his body was collapsed heavily on top of Tom. He took a breath, inhaling the spicy, musky scent of Tom’s sweat and whatever cologne he used. He wanted to stay like this forever, let the perspiration cool on their skin and live off each other’s bodies. In those seconds he would abandon everything-his name, his job, his _life_ -just to stay like this for longer.

         Then his mind sped up and he realized what he’d done.

         Harry jerked away, stumbling off the couch. He had a moment to take in Tom-hair astray, eyes cloudy, lips swollen and raw-and then he was muttering apologies and ‘have to go’s and ‘shouldn’t have’s and apparating to his flat.

         He threw up when he got there, barely making it to the toilet. Harry knew better, _he knew better_ , than to get involved with anyone. It had been just this morning that he’d seen his first love, his first kiss, his bloody sister, laid out like some ritual sacrifice. Harry kneeled shaking by the bathtub, letting the coolness of the tiles on his clammy hands slowly bring him back to reality.

         He’d molested Tom. He’d molested Tom, after only kissing the man once, and he’d _liked_ it. Usually Harry wasn’t the one in control, but everything in his head these days seemed mixed up, muddled and foggy, and he’d taken it out on a man who’d only ever been nice to him. Though he remembered the way Tom had growled when Harry’d accidentally nicked his lip during their kiss at Hogwarts, and he thought maybe Tom didn’t mind a little roughness. No, the Tom Harry had seen then seemed the type to take and take and take, but the one Harry had just experienced seemed designed only to give.

         He was overthinking this. He had run out of Tom’s home like a cat with its tail on fire, and Tom probably never wanted to see him again after the way Harry had basically attacked him. Better not to dwell, because it wouldn’t be happening again.

         Work would be awkward, to say the least.

         …

         Later that night, Harry was woken from a dream hard as a rock, hand already moving down to grip his cock. He knew it wasn’t the dream, and he knew it wasn’t his own feelings, either; he could tell through his cloudy, sleepy mind that the thrum of _lustangerlustthatboy_ was coming from his scar, but he still wrapped his hand around his painfully hard erection and tugged. His nails bit into the bruises that were starting to form from falling out of bed earlier, and he pressed down hard, eliciting a sharp cry. He came quickly, mind wrapped up in another’s, and was pulled into a different dream.

…

         “He’s ecstatic that you’re coming, you know. Says he’s about to go crazy with only his mother for company,” the nurse on duty at St. Mungo’s smiled at Harry, flirting a little. She was pretty, but his mind still rested on darker eyes and silkier waves.

         Harry nodded and she let him into Ron’s room.

         “Finally,” a familiar voice gasped, and Harry couldn’t help but break into a wide grin as he strode over to Ron’s bedside.

         “Thought she was going to drive me nuts! Going on about who sent flowers and who didn’t, and whether she’ll have to come stay with me in case something goes wrong; Merlin forbid,” Ron shuddered.

         Harry gingerly wrapped his arms around his best friend and let himself laugh.

         “I’m really, really glad you woke up,” Harry whispered into his hair.

         Ron sobered as Harry pulled away. “I heard…I heard you took a look at the crime scene,” he stated, clearing his throat. “Was she-was she-did it look like she hurt for long?”

         Harry blinked back the stinging in his eyes and shook his head and lied through his teeth. “It looked peaceful. Fast.”

         Ron nodded in relief, wiping away a stray tear. “Yeah. Yeah, good. Mum won’t talk about it, you know. Just fawns over me. Keeps baking more muffins.”

         Harry swallowed hard, teeth grinding together. He’d been to see Mrs. Weasley before they’d heard that Ron had woken up that morning, and she had seemed…not good. Cleaning and cooking and bossing Arthur around, who otherwise would have just sat on the couch looking dejectedly into the fireplace. The twins were coming by later, and Charlie was going to arrive by portkey that night from Albania. Percy and Bill had been trying to cheer up their dad and keep their mum away from hot ovens.

         “I’m sorry,” Harry sighed, sitting on the edge of Ron’s bed and running a hand through his hair. “I’m just…I just came to tell you that I probably should keep away from you and Hermione for a bit, until they catch him or-yeah.”

         “They may never catch him, though! He worked for years without them coming close before he tried to kill you,” Ron’s mouth pulled down dejectedly. “You can’t just say we’ll never see each other again, forever!”

         Harry flinched. He knew what he was saying, the truth of it, and it wasn’t any easier. He’d probably have to isolate himself for the rest of his life, become a hermit, move to some unknown town on the countryside and have no friends or family just like Snape. Voldemort would haunt him for the rest of his days, until they caught him, and, as Ron said, that was very unlikely. Even if they did manage to find the killer, Harry didn’t think that he’d ever be free of the other man’s clutches.

         “I know, Ron. I know.”

…

         Harry trudged towards the fresh mound of dirt that preceded a grave head declaring, _Sirius Black: Beloved friend, R.I.P._ Harry hadn’t been to visit the grave since the funeral, but he was happy to see fresh flowers scattered along its edges, including (Harry’s heart caught) wolfsbane. Remus had been here. Remus had come to visit, probably many more times than Harry.

         Harry let out the shaky breath he’d been holding and crouched down in front of the grave. He slipped from his coat pocket a piece of the mirror that Sirius had given him when he was fifteen and which he’d accidentally broken after dropping it at the Dursley’s the summer of sixth year when Dudley had delivered a particularly hard thump to his back.

         He rubbed a finger over its rim, let the tip of his thump prick the spiked edge so that a small drop of blood welled up and fell onto the dirt.

         “I’m sorry, Sirius. I’ve fucked everything up,” Harry whispered, bowing his head and wiping back a tear that had escaped from beneath his glasses. “I wish-I wish-“

            Pain exploded in his forehead, and Harry collapsed at the edge of his godfather’s grave.


	9. Chapter Nine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello again! Haven't been able to post this as soon as I would have liked, but here it is! Lots of smut recently, I must be on a roll. Anyways, I hope you enjoy this sad, smutty chapter, because it was certainly sad but super fun to write!
> 
> Disclaimer: I own nothing. 
> 
> Also some warnings for very, very (emphasis on the very) light BDSM. And the typical abusive relationship that is Harry and Voldemort.

Chapter 9:

         _It always struck Harry at these moments how something could feel so real and just be a dream, or vice versa. Standing in an old, dusty, heavily curtained dining room, Harry felt like this was real; the man in front of him, white face, bald head, nose just slits like a snake’s, seemed real. The way his eyes glowed red like a bloodstain and the way he stood inches from Harry, breath ghosting warm and human on his cheek, it all seemed real. Yet Harry knew in the back of his mind that his body, at least, was still back in the graveyard with Sirius._

_“Harry Potter. The Chosen One,” Voldemort whispered, voice raspy and deep. The way he said Harry’s name was almost like a caress, tongue slipping over the syllables._

_Harry closed his eyes but he could still feel Voldemort’s breath on his skin, feel the man’s (monster’s) presence scant inches away. It was like there was a rope tied to his middle, and the other end was tied to Voldemort-he could sense every inhale the murderer took, every blink of his eye._

_“Do you want me to be alone? Is that it?” Harry finally opened his eyes, and bright green met red. “Isolate me until you think I’ll have no choice but to turn to you?”_

_Voldemort smiled, and Harry was surprised to see that his teeth were straight and white, pristine._

_“I don’t need to isolate you, Harry Potter. You’ve already done that yourself,” Voldemort murmured, leaning in so that his unnatural features were almost touching Harry’s. If the man had had a nose, they would have bumped._

_Harry ground his teeth together, locked his jaw and curled his fists._

_“You’re wrong. Even if I’m completely alone, I’ll never turn to you. You’re mad,” Harry hissed, and almost doubled over with the sudden feelings, raw and heavy, that pushed their way into his mind._ Painlustpainlustpainlust.

         _“No,” Harry choked past the sudden lump in his throat. “Stop.”_

Painlustpainlustpainlust.

         _He reached out involuntarily, hands coming up to grip weakly at Voldemort’s dark robes. The other man bared his teeth, sharp as a sharks, in a grin._

Painlustpainlustpainlust.

         _Harry’s forehead fell to Voldemort’s clothed chest. If he hadn’t been so overwhelmed by the amount of power and unfiltered feelings pouring into him, he would have retched at touching the man (monster). A whimper tore its way out of his throat, and Harry tightened his hands on instinct, hauling the killer closer by accident._

Painlustpainlustpainlust.

         _“Please,” he forced out, and he didn’t know if it was a plea for Voldemort to stop, or for more._

_“The Granger girl will be lovely in death, don’t you think? All that intelligence spilled out on Malfoy Manor’s floor,” Voldemort whispered into Harry’s ear._

Harry gasped, coming to all at once. His eyes snapped open, cold air hit his exposed skin, and he vaulted up to his feet.

         He apparated to the Ministry.

         …

         The plan was simple. Sneak past the wards of Malfoy Manor (easy), disarm the Death Eaters (easy), secure the house (easy), and capture Voldemort. No, it wouldn’t be that easy.

         All they needed to do, Slughorn had said once Harry had told him that he knew where Voldemort’s headquarters were, and that he had kidnapped Hermione, was take as many Death Eaters as they could into custody. Voldemort most likely wouldn’t be there, anyway.

         Harry knew he would, though. Knew he’d dropped the name of the house into Harry’s mind as a clue, an invitation. He was waiting, because he knew Harry would come.

         It was probably a trap, just like in the Department of Mysteries. Harry didn’t care; they had Hermione, and that was all that mattered.

         They stood at the gates of Malfoy Manor as Knightley undid the wards and nasty hexes set up to catch any unwelcome intruders, such as their small army of Auror’s. It _was_ easy, another sign that this was a trap, but there wasn’t anything they could do at this point. They finally knew the hideout, and in any moment it could all disappear.

         Harry stayed in the back of the men and women who walked wands raised and ready, as they broke through the gates and swarmed up the well manicured lawn towards the manor. He was here for Hermione, yes, and if that meant capturing a few of Voldemort’s followers that was good, too: but he was also here for the man who had murdered his parents and tried to murder him twenty one years before.

         He entered the manor and once again had to question if this were real, or just a dream; the shouts and screams and spells bouncing between Death Eaters and Auror’s seemed far away, as if on the sidelines of Harry’s vision and conscience. He could feel that tug in his middle again, and his scar prickled. The man was here, somewhere, waiting for him.

         He walked up the giant staircase as if in a trance, past fighting, bleeding, dying wizards and witches and towards a door at the back of a long corridor that seemed to take eons to traverse. This was it, Harry thought as he finally reached a simple looking, inconspicuous door at the end of the hall. This was the end to twenty one years of torture. This was where he would fight Voldemort, and this was where one of them would die.

         Harry’s hand reached for the doorknob and pushed it open.

…

         It was funny, Harry mused later, how some things stuck in ones mind slowed down like sticky molasses. Looking back now, it was as if he watched the scene in slow motion; the way he stepped into the room and saw the lean, suit clad back of a man with dark hair facing towards the window. The way the man spun on his freshly polished heels to face him, Harry, with a smile slowly pulling at the skin on his face.

         The way Harry’s heart seemed to crack as every last puzzle piece seemed to fit itself into place.

         Time sped up again, and Tom was walking towards him with fast, measured steps and grabbing his arm and Harry felt like he was being torn apart, felt dampness swelling in his eyes even as it was whisked away by the fast, swirling air of apparation.

         In the short moments before they landed in the dark, dusty dining room Harry recognized from his dreams, he had time to process one thought, over and over again.

         Tom was Voldemort. Voldemort was Tom. Tom had killed his parents. Tom had tried to kill him.

         Tom had betrayed him.

         And then Harry was stumbling as his feet landed on solid ground and he was wrenching his wrist away and gasping for breath as every horror he could’ve ever believed about his parents killer finally revealed itself to him.

         “You,” he finally choked out, staring at Tom.

         The man waited patiently by the sheet covered dining room table, thin shafts of sunlight making their way from the cracks in the drapes to highlight his every feature. He looked exactly the same as he always did; dark hair slicked back except for that one curl Harry always had the urge to push into place falling onto his forehead. His eyes drilled themselves into Harry’s, hands clasped loosely in front of his hips.

         Tom let out a brilliant smile that seemed to light up his whole face with manic glee, and Harry’s scar flashed with something like triumph.

         “Me,” Tom answered, tilting his head slightly, those white, perfect teeth that Harry now recognized baring themselves.

         “The whole time?” Harry whispered, a tug in his chest.

         “The whole time,” Tom spread his arms out wide, as if presenting something he was supremely proud of.

         “What about-what about in the dreams?” Harry’s breath hitched with pain, and his heart thudded hard against his ribcage.

         “A glamour, nothing more. This is me, Harry. This has always been me,” Tom smiled, taking a step closer to him. Harry retreated back a step. Tom’s smile dimmed.

         “I must admit, I did keep it well under wraps. Towards the end I thought you might have suspected, but you played your part… _beautifully_ ,” Tom breathed out the last word, a mad glint lighting up his dark eyes.

         Harry swallowed hard, balling his hands into fists.

         “Fuck you,” he spat out, starting to tremble. His vision was going red.

         Tom’s smile dropped off his face within the space of a second as he let his eyes run over Harry and his dirt covered clothes from falling at the feet of Sirius’ grave.

         “My, my, that’s not polite now, is it? Here I am inviting you into my family home, offering you my mentorship, my advice, and you go and say something like that? Where on earth did you learn your manners from, Mr. Potter, because it certainly wasn’t your parents,” Tom tsked, and Harry leaped.

         He didn’t need his wand; he let it clatter to the carpeted ground as he lunged towards Tom (Voldemort). He just wanted his fists on Tom’s face, bloodying him to a black and blue mess. He wanted to make Tom _hurt_ ; he wanted it to last for a very, very long time.

         Because Harry had cared, goddammit. He had cared, and even when he told himself not to, he had trusted. And now it was all gone.

         Harry’s fist made contact with Tom’s cheek, that perfectly angled cheek, and Tom let out a small sound of surprise as his neck snapped back. He shoved Tom up against the back wall and swung again, making contact with his jaw this time. Red bruises were already starting to bloom on Tom’s pale skin.

         A moment of pause to take in the damage he’d caused and Tom had time to catch him with his own fist, pain radiating up through Harry’s skull. Tom swept his leg out and Harry collapsed in a pile on the ground, but not before he took a hold of Tom’s pants leg and dragged him down too. Harry landed a blow on his stomach and Tom let out a huff of laughter as the air left his lungs. His victory was short lived, though; a moment later Harry’s back was rubbing hard into old wood and Tom had his hands pinned above his head, legs caging Harry’s in as he straddled his waist.

         “Harry Potter,” Tom sneered, leaning down until he was inches away, just like his glamoured self had been earlier. Their noses bumped and Harry felt Tom’s breath on his mouth, the barely there, ghost of sensation at his lips. “Can’t even win a muggle fight.”

         And then Tom’s mouth was on his and Harry was kissing back, hard enough to bruise. Teeth clashed and Tom bit down with sharp teeth, eliciting a small moan from Harry’s throat. Tom muttered a spell beneath his breath and dragged his hands away, down down down to tangle in Harry’s hair and clutch at his hips. Harry tried moving his arms; they were secured tightly to the floor with magic.

         Tom pulled away to take a breath and Harry’s lips scraped across his cheek, open and wet, tongue coming to lap at his skin. Tom chuckled and nipped at Harry’s jaw before coming back to slot their mouths together, tongues tangling and sucking and stroking. His hands moved down to pop the button of Harry’s jeans, slip past his boxers to clutch him with warm, lightly callused fingers. Harry was ashamed at how hard he was; so hard it was almost painful.

         “Please,” Harry gasped against Tom’s wet mouth, tugging at the invisible bonds that held his hands. “Get them off, I want to touch you, please. _Tom_.”

         A guttural sound escaped past Tom’s lips and he muttered another spell. Harry’s hands were on him immediately-stroking down his back, pulling his shirt from his pants and slipping his hands underneath. His back arched, bringing him closer to Tom’s blazing hot skin, power pouring off him in waves.

         Harry’s scar pulsed as his mental walls disappeared, crumbled beneath Tom’s reach. He felt Tom reaching inside his head even as he stroked Harry’s cock with long, slow strokes. Harry met him there, entwined their minds together in an almost gentle touch, the antithesis to his scratching, desperate hands shoving past Tom’s pants to grip at his bare arse.

         Tom groaned and ground his hard cock into Harry’s as Harry pushed their minds, their essences, their souls closer together until it was impossible for him to distinguish one from the other. All he could see, smell, hear, taste, touch was Tom. Harry felt like he was dying; he felt like he was being born.

         “What do you want with me, Harry Potter?” Tom repeated Harry’s question from what seemed like ages ago as he wrenched his mouth from Harry’s skin so that their eyes could meet. Even in the soft darkness of the old room, Harry could see the way Tom’s pupils were blown, knew his were the same.

         “I want you,” Harry breathed its twins response, breath struggling to escape his chest as he carded his fingers through Tom’s now messy locks, let his fingernails dig into Tom’s scalp.

         Tom growled, deep in his chest, like the rumble of a large exotic cat. He bit at Harry’s wrist hard enough to sting.

         “More specific,” Tom panted, rolling his hips down into Harry’s again.

         Harry let out a broken sound and bared his throat, trying to pull Tom’s face closer to his so he could capture his lips.

         Tom leaned down, tongue licking at Harry’s lips.

         “I want you to fuck me,” Harry breathed against his mouth, and something in Tom seemed to break.

         He could feel the push of Tom’s magic in his head, the overwhelming mantra of _mineminemine_ that was engraving itself into his core. Over that he heard the clank of a belt buckle being undone, and then Tom hissing out another spell and two wet fingers being inserted inside of him.

         Harry pushed up, chewed at Tom’s lips.

         “Now,” an animalistic snarl ripped itself from Harry’s throat as he reached down to engulf Tom’s warm, heavy cock in his hand. “Now, just fuck me, for fuck’s sake.”

         Tom, on his part, complied. He withdrew his fingers and positioned himself at Harry’s entrance, and at the same time as he pushed himself into Harry with one firm, fast snap of his hips, he enveloped his mind as well.

         Harry felt whole for the first time in his life.

         As Tom thrust into him hard enough to make his back scrape against the wood floor, hands slipping up his sides clutching tightly enough to cause bruises and mouth back at Harry’s in a sloppy, open mouthed kiss, he felt his soul, the place where his magic was held, coming together for what felt like the first time in his life. Harry moaned high in the back of his throat, trying to ground himself by digging his feet into the floor. Every thrust was accompanied by hot breath in his ear and murmured words that Harry couldn’t fully make out, chants of his name, of possession, of curses and prayers and something that sounded peculiarly like love.

         Harry choked on something in his throat and realized that he was crying, tears leaking out of his eyes to run down his cheeks as he climbed higher and higher, and his and Tom’s magic swirled faster and faster.

         “Darling,” Tom gasped into his ear, hand coming up to clutch at Harry’s throat, and Harry came and all he could see was a burst of white light, like he was looking directly at the sun. He clenched around Tom’s cock and felt Tom’s hips stutter, slam harder and faster, and then stop as Harry’s mind was flooded with everything bright and good.

         When he came back to himself Tom’s whole weight was slumped on top of him. Their chests rose and fell in unison, and around them, the room was quiet except for the sound of their breathing as it slowly returned to normal.

         Harry felt like his heart was breaking, shattering into a million pieces and stabbing every organ it could find along the way.

         He squirmed a little, and Tom pushed himself up and off to the side. Harry didn’t look at him; he could still feel the tracks of his tears on his face, cold and damp.

            Harry rolled to the side, gripped his wand, and disapparated.


	10. Chapter Ten

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello!! I'm so, so deeply sorry for the delay in posting this. Part of it was that I was so overwhelmingly busy, and part of it was a bit of writer's block. Thankfully I overcame that and was finally able to do this chapter just the way I had wanted to. I hope it explains a lot (that's the reason for the slightly boring backstory to come, because I do feel like even though we all know it, it still needs to be illustrated and show why it's a serial killer he becomes, not some world dominating crazy whatever), and I'm sorry for the small cliffhanger, please don't hate me too much :) 
> 
> Disclaimer: I own nothing.

Chapter 10:

         Harry stumbled into his flat a broken man.

         He barely made it to the loo before throwing up everything he’d eaten that day, stomach heaving and twisting itself into sickened knots. When he’d finally finished he whispered a quick cleansing charm and his voice sounded scratchy, wrecked, even to his buzzing ears. He rested his forehead on the cool porcelain of the toilet seat and tried to take deep breaths into the air that swirled softly around his face with every swoosh of the fan he’d left on that morning. He found he couldn’t; every time he tried to steady his heartbeat, his breath would come faster and his vision would whittle down to a pinprick of black, and he’d almost pass out. So he stayed like that for a time: heavy, chopped breathing under the bright lights of his bathroom.

         He must’ve drifted off, or fainted, or both, because the next thing he knew he was splayed on the floor, glasses lopsided on his face so that half his vision was blurry. He pushed them back up and pulled himself into a sitting position.

         His mind felt clearer, clearer than it had in weeks, he noticed. For once there didn’t seem to be anything pressing on his brain, no prickling in his scar; reaching back, Harry realized with a start that he must’ve closed the connection with Voldemort- _Tom_ -automatically when he’d arrived back at his flat. He’d had the thing open for so long now he’d barely noticed that it had started to clog his head with heaviness and slow, dragging thoughts. He could feel the metal door he’d built to keep out Voldemort-Tom, _Tom,_ it was Tom for Merlin’s sake-firmly secured, padlocked, and six inches deep beneath his subconscious’ fingertips.

         He was so, undeniably stupid.

         Harry had thought, after all the practice he’d had, that he would be able to control what Voldemort sent through when he’d opened the connection. He’d never closed it back up again after that first fateful night because he’d always thought it might be useful, a tool that could be powered on and off again at will, during the course of their investigation. Instead, Tom had somehow wormed his way in deep enough through those dreams and visions and the excess emotions Harry had always seemed to possess, and taken control without Harry even knowing it. The fact that he’d done it for so long, with Harry so oblivious, made Harry feel ill again, but there was nothing left for him to throw up. He felt like he’d gone through a night of hard drinking and instead of waking up with a blinding headache, woke up with a clean mind. He’d forgotten what it was like, to possess one.

         Harry’s hand clenched around the edge of his t-shirt, where he could feel dried come beginning to flake off. God, what he’d done with that man, even after finding out the truth…but he couldn’t blame himself. He could only blame himself for not knowing the connection was there, the stupid hubris that had made him think he was invincible, not claimable. He couldn’t blame himself for what Tom made him do. He muttered another cleaning spell.

         Harry dragged his arm up to check his watch. His limbs felt like they were tied down with bricks to the floor, but he forced himself to stand when he saw the time. Somehow, five hours had passed since they’d invaded Malfoy Manor. It was approaching six pm.

         He didn’t trust himself to apparate to the Ministry so he took the floo instead. When he arrived in the atrium it was like a madhouse, tens of people bustling around shouting orders and following them. He slipped through the crowd fairly unnoticed, making his way slowly down to the floor that housed the Auror’s department. Inside it was even more of a mess; people were walking around with torn robes and there was a distinct burning smell that permeated the area.

         “Potter, finally. Shacklebolt’s been looking for you, he’s in Slughorn’s,” a passing Auror shot at Harry, who nodded wordlessly and made his way down the hall.

         He opened the door to the office, empty except for Kingsley and a wizard wearing healer’s clothing talking in quick, low voices. When Harry stepped in they stopped abruptly and Kingsley nodded to the healer, who promptly shoved past Harry and into the chaos he’d left behind. Harry closed the door and leaned back against it.

         “How many?” he asked, voice still ruined like he’d inhaled a house full of smoke.

         Kingsley sighed and leaned back in his chair, pinching the bridge of his nose and closing his eyes.

         “Twenty out of the sixty we sent. It was a heavy loss,” Kingsley admitted, sliding his hand down the rest of his face and opening his eyes to meet Harry’s.

         Harry swallowed, worry consuming his stomach and climbing his throat.

         “Who?” he whispered, and Kingsley knew without asking that he meant who that he knew, who that he loved?

         “Tonks was hit with a killing curse. Seamus got bitten by Greyback, neck torn to pieces. Slughorn is in critical condition at St. Mungo’s. I’m his temporary replacement.”

         Harry’s breath caught. God, he was so fucking dumb. All of this because he hadn’t thought Voldemort could control him, had thought he was strong.

         “Where did you get to? We couldn’t find you anywhere, by the time we pulled out,” Kingsley interrupted the shame that had been welling in Harry’s heavy heart.

         Harry’s eyes snapped towards Kingsley, and the words out of his mouth were automatic, thoughtless.

         “Voldemort grabbed me and took me to some dark place. I don’t know where, before you ask, and I still don’t know who-I mean, he was wearing a glamour, that is. I punched him and managed to get away.”

         The lie was so easy, so simple. It rolled off of Harry’s tongue like it was the truth.

         Kingsley nodded, believing Harry without a second thought.

         “We’ll need to take your statement, but I can see you’ve been through hell. Come back in the morning, try to remember anything you can and write it down if you think you’ll forget,” Kingsley told him, gesturing him away.

         Harry turned to leave.

         “Oh, and Harry?” Kingsley called softly. “I’m sorry about your friends.”

         …

         He hadn’t been to Hogwarts since the Annual Ministry Ball. The place looked so different now, without all the Christmas decorations and sparkling lights. More normal, more like the place it had been when he’d come to school here. Bare stones and talking pictures lined against the wall, grumpily snapping at him or waving hello as he passed.

         He muttered the candy Dumbledore had told him he’d taken to eating almost every day at the Christmas ball when he reached the man’s office doors, and they slid open easily. The climb upstairs seemed endless; Harry felt as if he’d aged forty years.

         He didn't knock but just entered, let himself fall into the seat across the desk from the wizard, hands curling around the softened wood he remembered from all those times he’d spent in Dumbledore’s office during school, learning, fighting, talking.

         When he finally met Dumbledore’s blue, x-ray gaze, it held only compassion and understanding, no judgement, no reproach. It held only love.

         Harry opened his mouth to say something, but what ended up coming out was a half broken sob, and then he was crying into his hands in Dumbledore’s office like he hadn’t since he was fifteen and learned about his connection to his parents killer.

         When he’d finally gotten all the tears out he lifted his head, eyes puffy and swollen, shuttering breath piercing his lungs.

         “Did you know? That it was Tom?” Harry asked, voice coming out like shards of glass on his throat.

         Dumbledore’s head tilted to the side as he watched Harry, fingers making a thin steeple on the edge of the desk.

         “I suspected, but I did not know for sure until just now,” Dumbledore admitted, tapping his joined fingers against his thin pink lips. “It does not surprise me. He was always…well, he was always a troubled boy.”

         Harry clenched his jaw and steeled himself.

         “I want you to tell me everything.”

…

         “Tom was always alone. It wasn’t a solitude that came from lack of friends, for he always had those, or ‘followers’, as he liked to call them. He was alone because he thought himself above everyone else, always better, stronger, smarter. I think, for a long time, being at Hogwarts was his escape; his escape from his poor witch mother who had died at birth, leaving him to the care of the state, and the wealthy muggle father who didn’t know of him and later did not want him. Here, at school, no one knew of his past. They only knew of him as the handsome, intelligent Tom Riddle. He seemed to bask in the power they gave him, the way they idolized him. He seemed, to them, a god.

         “It was not until his sixth year that I began to suspect something was amiss. He began researching the history of wizard supremacy, of ancient magic used to confine muggles power, the power they possessed naturally and could not access like you and me. It was not…well, it was not ideal, but I figured that he was just curious and let him continue. That was my mistake, Harry. That is my biggest regret.

         “He must have killed his father and his father’s family in their dining room the summer before his seventh year. I had heard about it, for it was in the muggle news. They were very wealthy and very well known around that area. I never suspected Tom. I knew that the elder Tom Riddle had cut off all contact with his son when Tom had first made his presence in the world known the year he came to Hogwarts. Maybe Tom had thought that his father would accept him because now he was special, a wizard, with especially strong and prized powers. Maybe Tom had just lacked the courage before then. I will never know. It doesn’t matter. What matters is that he killed them first, in the dining room, and that’s how he killed all the others. That’s how I should have known, and that’s when I started to suspect.

         “He probably hunted down many muggle families after that, or muggleborns or any non-pureblood families that sympathized with this seemingly ‘lower class’ of species. He hated half of his own heritage, was disgusted by his father and the genes the man had passed on. It seemed the only way to overcome it was to take the energy from them, absorb it by killing and then poising them as he had the first family he had ever killed; his own.

         “Your parents were very brave, and very kind, Harry. They stuck up for a class of people that many, at the time, thought of as deeply inferior. They ended up giving their lives for a cause, and that is as noble a death as I would wish upon anyone. The one thing they would have regretted, I know, was giving up you.”

…

         “Harry, please, tell us what this is about,” Hermione begged as he let her and Ron into his flat and locked and spelled the door shut behind them.

         He gestured for them to take a seat on the couch. Ron plopped down, spreading his legs wide and pushing his hand up into his hair. Hermione took a fidgety, uncomfortable seat on the very edge. Her eyes searched Harry’s face as if searching for any sign that he wasn’t okay. She wouldn’t find it; he’d blocked off his emotions, practiced this speech many times throughout the past few hours in his mirror. He would need every wit about him when he set off to do what he knew needed to be done, and he couldn’t let his care of them get in the way.

         “I lied to Kingsley,” he started off, clasping his hands together to steady them. “Earlier, when I told him that Voldemort was wearing a glamour when he took me. That I couldn’t recognize his face.”

         Hermione and Ron held his gaze, breath stopped, as they waited for the name to drop.

         Harry took a breath, let it out in a calm exhale. “It was Tom. Voldemort is Tom.”

         Hermione let out a shriek of horror and slapped a hand over her mouth. Ron shouted curses and fell back onto the couch in a near faint. Harry let them take the information in for a few moments.

         “But Harry…why didn’t you tell Kingsley? You know that you should have, they could find him, you need-“ Hermione started, but Harry raised a hand to cut her off.

         “They won’t let me back on the case, Hermione. I’m too involved, now,” he said, deliberately emphasizing the last two words, and Hermione’s eyes widened in understanding. Ron wrinkled his brow in bemusement.

         “Not really any more involved than you were before, though, right?” Ron shrugged his shoulders and shook his head.

         Hermione rolled her eyes and turned to him in a typical Hermione fashion. It almost made Harry smile. Almost.

         “He means that they were _involved_ , Ron. Romantically. Really,” she huffed, and turned back to Harry leaning forward off the couch. “What do you plan on doing, then, Harry? You can’t be protecting him, not after all he’s done. No matter what kind of relationship you two had, it must be less important than-“

         “Hermione,” Harry cut her off with a snap, feeling bad when her mouth twisted in discomfort.

            “I know. I know I can’t,” he said, softer. “I’m not protecting him. I’m going to find him. And then I’m going to kill him.”


	11. Chapter Eleven

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! I know it's been forever since I've posted, and I apologize profusely-I've kind of had a bit of writers block on this story, to be honest. We're fast approaching the end and I'm trying to think of a way to wrap it up that ties all the loose ends together correctly, so that's been hard. School ends soon, though, so hopefully I'll have way more time to brainstorm and focus and finally finish this! Hope you enjoy this little, kind of depressing chapter in the meantime :)   
> Disclaimer: I own nothing.

Chapter 11:

         Little Hangleton looked like the type of place you’d see in a documentary about abandoned towns. Old Christmas decorations wilted on paint peeling doorways, and a small fir tree that had lost half its quills sat forlornly in the small town square. Dirty snowbanks crowded the edges of the road, piled high with dead leaves and dirt. It was eerily quiet for five in the afternoon; as if everyone had retreated into their houses decades ago and decided never to come out again.

         Harry walked slowly in the hush of the fading light towards a large house that could be seen emerging, turrets and cracking roof and all, over the next hill. He felt as if he was stuck in the eye of a hurricane; the light was almost yellow, and no wind swirled the branches of the barren trees. Harry knew that, in some ways, he truly was experiencing the calm in the middle of a storm. He’d braved his way through to it, and now he’d have to fight to get back out.

         The house came more clearly into view as he crested the hill, stopping for a moment to look upon it. The surrounding greenery was overgrown and brown, mostly dead. Many beams of dark wood that made up the houses frame seemed as if they were rotting, and a plain piece of oak that someone had made the effort to place over a broken window was on the edge of falling off. There were no houses around it; the manor was alone on its hill, surrounded only by an old graveyard, devoid of any human presence.

         “Bit wreck of a thing, isn’t it?” a voice cackled behind him.

         Harry’s heart jumped, and he turned with his hand already reaching towards his wand before realizing it was just an old woman leaning heavily on her cane and staring up at the house with an almost wistful look in her milky blue eyes.

         “Yes,” Harry answered, turning back to look at the house once again.

         “The family that used to live there were all murdered. I remember like it was yesterday, you know. I used to work for them as a cook back when Mr. Riddle was just a babe. Terrible thing,” the woman sighed, her breath croaking out of her like it scratched her throat as it went.

         Harry started at the name before realizing that she meant Tom’s father, Riddle Sr. Of course this woman hadn’t known Tom Jr. Who would have, here?

         “What were they like?” Harry asked, watching the woman closely. He felt no magic from her. She was purely a muggle, with no knowledge about the horrible incidents that had taken place in the manor nearly twenty three years before other than the simple, muggle facts.

         “Oh, they were like every other rich family you’ll find out here in the country. Fond of keeping their line pure, and all that. We thought here in the village for awhile that the son would end up doing away with that when he took off with that poor Gaunt girl, but he ended up coming back and was reinstated as the heir just like that,” the woman snapped her fingers. “And really, you couldn’t have seen a crueler man. He would always be teasing other children, when the parents weren’t looking. The worst was when a boy claiming to be his son came and knocked right on their door one day.”

         Harry’s breath caught. “What happened? To the boy?”

         “He marched up there as if he right belonged to the place already. Little haughty chin raised, and knocked on the door with the air of someone who’s rich. He was only about ten or eleven, mind you, but he seemed smart, older than his years. Of course, Tom didn’t believe him, sent him off without even a pat on the back,” the woman shook her head. “Poor boy seemed like he was about to burst into tears, he did. I went right up to him and said, ‘listen here, you don’t want to be associated with a family like that anyway. They ain’t nice people’. He just looked at me, big eyes watering, and in a second his face turned into something horrifying and he screamed that he would show me, he would show all of them. I always wondered what happened to the poor thing. I see it too often in a child like that, sadness morphing into anger. It ain’t right.”

         Harry could imagine it clearly in his head. Little Tom, so hellbent on proving this woman and his father that he could be something great. The way his heart broke at his fathers laughter when he told Sr. he was his son, the ridicule that had formed stone over his heart, made him as cruel. Harry swallowed past the sudden lump in his throat. If only…if only what? If only he could go back in time and prevent Riddle from growing up to be the warped, twisted thing that was Voldemort? Harry snorted and shook his head.

         “Stay away from that house, is my advice. Deaths like that leave ghosts,” the woman shook her head at him and ambled away.

         Harry took a deep breath in before moving forward. The air tasted like death, here.

         No one tried to stop him this time, as he pushed open the rusted gate that was the house’s only protection. His footsteps echoed on the cracked stone like he had entered some kind of cavernous room, and he could feel only the remnants of magic, here, preformed long ago.

         The front door hung off its hinges slightly, and creaked when Harry pulled it open. He shut it gently behind him and cast a confundus charm large enough to encase the front entryway and stop any muggle from coming inside. Paintings hung at odd angles along the walls, and Harry could make out pointed features and straight noses reminiscent of Tom’s in the pale light coming in from the dusty windows. He could sense the magic more strongly now, pulling him down the hall and towards the right of the grand staircase in the back of the entryway. He stopped at the threshold to the dining room; he felt as if he knew the room intimately now, had known it for ages, even though he’d only been there physically once, two days earlier. The time had passed in eons.

         Harry stepped into the room.

         His vision blurred, and suddenly he was assaulted with a hazy picture of the room when it was in its prime, an elderly couple in their late sixties and a handsome man in his forties seated around the table. Harry blinked and suddenly there was a sixteen year old Tom, godlike in his fury. He tied them to chairs, taunted them, slashed their throats. It was messy and childlike and base in its violence. He would get more precise, over time, leave the families with elegance in their posture and wounds. Not this time, though, not his first. This time it was pure fury.

         Harry blinked again and his vision cleared. The curtains were moth bitten once again, chairs strewn to the side around the table and greying carpet. The memory had been old, left behind by the intense emotions of Tom when he’d killed all those years ago.

         Harry felt magic manifest at the entrance, and turned towards the hallway. He walked more quickly now, through the threshold of the dining room and down the hall with quiet, even steps. He saw Tom before the man saw him; by the time Riddle knew he was there, the killers arms had been restrained by heavy rope and his body was flying through the air to knock itself onto a chair in the dining room. Harry followed almost lazily, taking his time now to come stand in front of Tom, grip tight on his wand. Tom’s dark eyes were bright, brighter than he’d ever seen them. Not with fear, or anger, or irritation, but a type of manic glee and excitement that was so utterly inappropriate for the moment Harry laughed.

         “Darling,” Tom’s voice slid over Harry’s ears like a caress, and the slightly unhinged smile dropped off of Harry’s face. The pet name made him sick to his stomach; he almost threw up the small lunch he’d been able to shove down. It made him remember the last time Harry had been called ‘darling’ by Tom Riddle.

         “Riddle,” Harry replied, voice wrapping around Tom’s surname with disgust.

         Tom’s smile stretched his face. “You came for me, after all. I always knew you would.”

         Harry remained silent, staring down at his captive.

         Tom’s smile dimmed a bit. “Oh, sweetheart, don’t be like that. It had to be done; how else do you think I would have gotten stronger? I needed their magic to show my father who he turned away when he slammed the door in my face,” Riddle’s voice grew to a growl near the end, teeth bared and expression fierce.

         “Your father died twenty three years ago,” Harry sighed, pinched the bridge of his nose.

         Tom’s nose scrunched in confusion. “Well, yes, I was the one who killed him. In this very dining room, in fact. Macabre choice of venue for revenge, if you ask me, but I’ll teach you the right way to stage when this is all done with.”

         Harry tried to keep his breathing steady. “There’ll be no more ‘when this is all done’ for you, Riddle.”

         Tom met Harry’s eyes, face suddenly serious. “Why, Mr. Potter, of course there will be; you’ll never be whole without me again.”          

         Harry’s breath caught, because he knew, somewhere deep down inside, this was true. He didn’t know how, or why, but for some reason he knew that if, _when,_ he killed Tom Riddle, a part of him would die too. It didn’t lessen his resolve.

         “I want to know why you killed my parents,” Harry’s breath seemed to rattle from his throat.

         Tom’s eyes studied Harry’s face for a few moments before shaking his head.

         “They were aftermath, collateral damage. You’ve seen the prophecy, you know what it said. Back then, well-I thought it best to kill you. Your mothers love was a strong thing,” Tom sneered here, and Harry some something like jealousy flash in his eyes. “I watched you, when I got stronger. You changed my mind-I could see you so clearly, strong and powerful by my side. We could rule the world together, Harry, if you’d let us.”

         “I will never be like you,” Harry hissed, anger clouding his vision.

         Tom bared his teeth in a mocking grin. “Oh, but see, you already are.”

         Harry’s hand shook on his wand. The words came easily, now, much easier than before, with Bellatrix. When he calmly murmured the cruciatus curse, it didn’t take energy like last time. Didn’t leave him flushed and tired to his bones. Instead it seemed to fuel him, the way Tom writhed with gritted teeth under his bindings, clenching the side of the chair until his knuckles turned white. He reveled in the way Tom’s hair fell out of its slicked back hold and into his eyes, the way sweat erupted on his skin in pearly drops, the way he tried to hold back screams.

         Harry lowered his wand. Tom lay panting, gasping for breath, slumped over in the chair. The only thing holding him up were the ropes that cut into his pale flesh, leaving red marks.

         He finally gained enough energy to raise his head and look Harry in the eyes. Harry felt his heart stop.

         “Is that all you’ve got?”

         Harry gritted his teeth, raised his wand, and cast an avada kedavra.

…

         When Harry woke up, it took him a few moments to remember where he was. Spots danced in his vision as he took in the faded curtains, ragged rug, and splintering wood of the Riddle Manor’s dining room. Finally, his eyes came to rest on Tom.

         The man towered over him with a pleased look on his face. His hair was still damp and wayward, flopping onto his forehead, but now he stood unbound. Harry tried to move his hands, and almost groaned when he realized that Tom had reversed their positions; that now he was the captive, under the scrutiny of a man who had tried to murder him before and now, after Harry had failed in his payback, would probably try again.

         Tom tsk’ed as if he could read Harry’s thoughts.

         “No, no, my dear, of course I won’t kill you. You must have figured out by now that it’s impossible,” Tom laughed and reached over to cradle Harry’s chin between his fingers. Harry tried to pull away but Tom was strong, stronger than Harry had ever been. Harry had just wished he’d realized that fact sooner.

         Tom studied his face and sighed, shaking his head. “You still don’t understand, do you? When I tried to kill you that night, my curse rebounded and a part of my soul fractured off, landing on the only other living object in the room: you. We’re a part of each other, you and I; we share a soul. You can’t kill your soul as much as I can’t kill mine.”

         Harry closed his eyes and shook his head. He didn’t want to believe it, but in some twisted way, it did make sense. Their connection, the feeling of wholeness Harry felt every time they touched. Of course; of course.

         Tom ran a thumb down Harry’s jaw, tilting his head up and leaning close.

         “I never thought I’d find someone as perfect, as deserving as you to share myself with. And yet, here you are,” Tom murmured, and brushed his lips chastely against Harry’s.

         A sound of distress made its way out of Harry’s throat, and he jerked his head back. “God, please, don’t. Why can’t you just leave me alone?”

         Tom pulled back, eyes wide as if he was surprised. “Because I love you, of course. My, you really are quite oblivious sometimes.”      

         Tom dropped to his knees in front of Harry, who pulled harder on his bindings. He slid his hands up Harry’s legs to grasp at his hips and looked up at him almost adoringly, worshipping.

         “I’d do anything for you,” Tom whispered, rubbing his cheek against Harry’s knee. “Anything you asked of me, darling, as long as you’d stay by my side.”

         Harry felt sick to his stomach, even as he shuddered at Tom’s words. Something inside of him seemed to break, then-because of course he loved Tom, desperately, insanely, horrifyingly. He’d loved Tom from the moment he’d looked at Harry as if he was a person and not some commodity, some carnival freak, and he’d loved him even after he knew Tom had killed countless numbers of people, his parents, ruined his life. Harry couldn’t get the image out of his head of a little eleven year old boy crying after his father had told him he’d wanted nothing to do with him. He couldn’t help but feel his heart pang every time Tom called him darling or sweetheart, or when Tom had clutched his throat and called him ‘mine’. He couldn’t help but be forlornly, dangerously in love with this man.

            “Harry Potter,” Tom whispered, reaching up to catch a tear that had fallen down Harry’s cheek. “My boy who lived.”


	12. Chapter Twelve

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi all. I'm literally so sorry about how long this small thing has taken me. I was having trouble with thinking of how I wanted to end this; I hope I did it justice. I also started college so I've been ridiculously busy :D Anywho, hope this is okay, I'm sorry in advance for sad things. 
> 
> Disclaimer: I own nothing.

Chapter 12:

         “Untie me.”

         Harry’s voice was quiet, resigned, sad. Hopeless. His fingers hung limp at his sides, every so often brushing against the cool wood of the chair.

         Tom leaned back ever so slightly, floorboards creaking under his feat. Ran the finger that had caught Harry’s tear up his forehead to stroke at his hair.

         “Will you run?” Tom asked, voice gentle, quiet to match Harry’s. It was as if the whole world had become quiet, still and dusty in the lowering sun.

         “No. I’m done running,” Harry sighed, letting his head fall into Tom’s grasp. Tom’s thumb traced his cheekbone one last time before stepping up and away from Harry.

         He pointed his wand at the chair and the ropes fell to the ground, frayed and bloody. Harry stretched and stood, taking a step closer towards the imposing man. Tom seemed almost shy as he looked down at the younger man, hands starting out to touch him before jerking and dragging back to his side. After all this time, Tom waited.

         Harry stepped into him, felt the warmth of his body float beneath Harry’s t-shirt and into his bones. Tom finally sighed, one last world weary sigh, and lifted his arms to embrace Harry fully. He hugged him close like he was drowning and Harry was his lifeboat. Safe, secure.

         Harry grasped the knife he’d hidden in his pants and stabbed it into Tom’s chest, up and to the left, around where his heart should lie. Tom choked, stumbled back. Stared at him in sudden irritation.

         “I told you, you can’t kill me while you’re alive, Ha-“ he started.

         Harry dragged the knife across his throat. Blood sprayed. Tom cried out. They fell.

         His last thought was of Hermione, and Ron, and Sirius and Dumbledore. He thought of his mother and father on the other side, waiting patiently, arms held out wide. His last blink was of Tom.

         …

         Picture this: a boy of six, dark hair, pale skin, glasses. His eyes are blue; they gleam bright under the sun, which turns the field he is in sparkling and white. He runs, laughing, twirling, content on his own.

         A man in his twenties watches him from the edge of the grass. His arms are crossed, black hair unruly, face twisted. He wears a pair of glasses that almost exactly match the boys. A few wrinkles coat his face, which looks tired, haggard.

         Cold fingers reach up the man’s neck and twine in his hair, turn his face. Lips meet his, softly, gently, a small kiss before pulling away. The man turns his head back to the boy.

         “Look at what we could have,” the other man whispers, fingers still entwined in his hair. “Look at all I could give you, here.”

         The bespectacled man is silent for a few minutes, both of them watching the boy, who is now sitting and weaving a chain out of daisy’s.

         “It’s too late,” he finally replies, clenching his jaw. “It’s too late. I’m sorry.”

         He untwines the taller mans fingers from his hair and turns to go.

         “But someday? Maybe?”

         He turns, meets desperate, wide blue eyes.

            “I’m sorry, Tom,” he repeats, and walks back into the white light, towards what looks like a train station, leaving both the man and the child behind.


End file.
